


Love That Passes (Is Enough)

by nihilist_toothpaste



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, a tiny bit of angst but only a bit, every trope ever idec fight me, poolboy au lmao wtf, self indulgent fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 02:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11476569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihilist_toothpaste/pseuds/nihilist_toothpaste
Summary: Phil is a sad divorcee who lives in a mansion. Dan starts as a nervous and weirdly loud law student hired to work part-time as Phil's poolboy-slash-housekeeper and turns into so much more.Just go with me on this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> see notes at the bottom of ch 1 for spoiler-y information addressing potential concerns/squicks regarding the age gap and power difference between dan and phil in this piece. 
> 
> //
> 
> this fic was a riiiddeeee. 
> 
> i started it ages ago because mandy got [this ask](http://alittledizzy.tumblr.com/post/160719932590/why-have-we-as-a-fandom-been-sleeping-on-this) and i thought it was hilarious. i had writer's block for my irl writing at the time so i was like fuck it, why not. i never really write fiction because i think my narrative storytelling abilities are kind of shit to be frank, so this seemed like it would be a fun writing exercise, forcing me to be creative in a way i'm normally not. i thought i'd just write it in an evening and send it to her and maybe a few other friends and be done with it. 
> 
> but 5k in i realized that ... oops ... i care about this story and i wanted to really /write/ it so, naturally, i abandoned it. for two months. and then i revisited it five days ago and i was like, shit. i need to finish this don't i? so for the last 5 days it's been all i could think about or do.
> 
> subnote: this is my first time writing anything like this (i've never even written a single piece w any degree of seriousness in any realm of my life that involves characters catching feelings or getting together) and it is also unbeta'ed so any and all mistakes are my own (lmk if u see typos!) i also welcome any constructive criticism in the comments! idk if i'll ever do this again, but seeing how people are reading things and where i could improve would be pretty dope. 
> 
> (but also ... pls tell me u like it. i am fucking nervous as hell tbh.)

Phil wakes up, as always, to disorienting quiet.

He closes his eyes and breathes. Opens them again and looks out at the massive room, the sunlight streaming in through bay windows, the tower of blu-rays stacked precariously next to the giant telly in the corner, the clothes strewn about on the floor. 

Untangling himself from his sheets, he trudges blearily into the adjacent bathroom to take a piss, trying and failing to avert his eyes from his own pasty complexion in the gilded mirrors above his sink. He’s afraid of what he sees, shadows clinging to the spaces below his eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. 

**

There’s comfort in the cinnamon residue of his morning cereal, the sugar mixing in with the milk and clinging to his lips. He sits alone at the marble-topped island in the middle of the kitchen, notes the cobweb taking shape in the corner, glistening strands of silken web stretching between the ceiling and the wall. 

Another day stretches out in front of him and he shudders with the weight of it. The thought of exerting any sum of energy forward and upward and outward has him feeling vaguely skittish and scuttling for cover—under his sheets, tucked away from the world.  

He loves films. He tries to convince himself he’s studying them as he shuffles back upstairs, back under his soft down duvet, pulls up his laptop, and clicks through his hard drive looking for an old favorite. The same way he’s done nearly every morning for the last few months. 

He clings to the rush of warmth as the opening frames of Howl’s Moving Castle flit across his screen and wonders how this is his life—the fleeting comfort of Studio Ghibli and cinnamon cereal and the cold emptiness of a home that has never really been his. 

**

Phil met Teddy at York. Phil was 22 and starting a masters in video post-production and special effects with far-off dreams of maybe one day working at a big film studio, and the privilege of parents who supported him in pursuing his interests, however far-fetched they were. Teddy had been older by several years: 28 and tragically bored, studying film criticism and theory, with a particular interest in La Nouvelle Vague and the use of subjective realism in 1950s French cinema. Or something. 

But in the haze of a flat party somewhere on the outskirts of campus, Phil had been drawn to Teddy immediately—the dirty blonde hair artfully falling across his brow, the cream turtleneck that hung off his frame, the wiry rims of his circular glasses, the inviting plush pink of his lips. 

Phil hadn’t known what he was doing at a scene like that, had always been fairly intimidated by parties in which nearly everyone was looking to get high or drunk or to fuck, or all three. He’d been having dinner with some other masters film students one moment, and in the next he was here. 

Pink light and arty house music and Teddy. Staring at him. 

**

They hooked up that night and it was only the second time Phil had ever slept with a man. 

** 

Phil thought he was in love. 

He’d never known someone who lived the way Teddy did. 

He spent endless nights in Teddy’s ultramodern loft, countless evenings out at dinners or drinking expensive cocktails mixed with liquors he’d never even heard of. 

Phil’s family had always been well off. His parents were squarely upper middle class and intent on ensuring that he and his brother never wanted for anything.  But Teddy’s wealth was on a level that was difficult to comprehend—in the beginning it was hard to pay attention to Teddy himself, amidst the absolutely absurd lavishness of his lifestyle. 

But Phil did, eventually. Teddy was whip smart, capable, and so very bored. He had no real need to work, nothing to really drive him. But Teddy thought Phil was endlessly fascinating. Thought he was beautiful and told him so. Pressed kisses to his face and hands and whispered into his hair that his mind was something special. 

Phil didn’t know he needed to be affirmed this way, didn’t know someone could find him so desirable, could make him feel like he deserved the world and then actually give it to him. 

Phil was in love. 

**

His mind has drifted when his phone buzzes, cutting into the gentle piano of the Howl’s Moving Castle theme. 

It’s PJ. Phil is surprised, and answers. 

“What’s up, P-slice?” comes PJ’s immediate and chirpy greeting, and then he’s emitting a sound of disgust and adding, “That didn’t work nearly as well I wanted it to.” 

“Hey, Peej,” Phil mumbles. “You’re weird. What’s up?” 

PJ laughs. “Ah, not much. Working on stuff. Sophie’s out for the week though, so I’m going a bit mental. So much fluff in my brainbox these days. Need to clean it out.” 

PJ’s always been just shy of fully ridiculous. He’s delightful. “Well maybe you can use the Sophie-free time to see to that,” Phil suggests.

“Yeah, I spose that’s the plan innit? Wanna get dinner soon, mate? Miss you. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” 

“Yeah it has, I guess.”   
  
PJ huffs. “More than two months, Lester. Dear god, you could be a totally different human now and I’d never know. You could have a third limb. Purple hair!” His voice has gone deep and theatrical. Phil smiles and lets him talk. “Let’s get dinner. There’s this sushi place kind of on the outskirts I’ve been meaning to check out, can we go?”

PJ lives near Manchester city center. Phil lives squarely outside the city, fully isolated from most people he knows. 

“Sushi sounds … fantastic, honestly. Yeah, let’s go. Um—“ he breaks off. 

“Yeah?”  


“Any chance you’re free tonight? I know it’s short notice but—“  
  
“Yeah, mate, I just said Sophie’s not here, and you know I never have plans. Let’s do it.”

They work out the details and Phil hangs up. 

Flopping over onto his back, he stares at his ceiling and breathes. 

**

Dinner is lovely, bathed in all of the familiarity that is PJ. He exudes warmth and draws Phil out of the cloudier recesses of his own mind in a singularly effective manner, something Phil had forgotten somehow, and for which he’s thankful anew. 

He giggles as PJ crosses his eyes and slurps up an enormous clump of noodles—actually giggles, and listens as he details his latest ventures into making Thai food of his own. 

“My fucking peanut sauce,” and he makes a sound that is utterly indecent. “Fucking. Delectable. I’ve got to make some for you some time.” 

They’ve known each other eight years, met while they were still in university, and bonded over a shared obsession with games and films. Phil wonders how it could still surprise him that PJ lifts his spirits the way he does. 

“Hey, wanna come back to mine after this?” Phil asks on a whim, over his mango and sticky rice. “Watch a movie or something?”

PJ leers at him and wiggles his brows. “Is that a line, Lester?” 

Phil kicks him under the table and laughs. “Yeah, of course.” 

“Hmm … Guess it could do me some good to chill a bit. See your castle again.”  


Phil grimaces, knows it’s apparent and wholly unnecessary, but can’t seem to control the twist of his own mouth muscles and the sudden surge of ice in his veins. 

“Hey, hey… Phil.” 

PJ sounds conciliatory and Phil’s not sure why he suddenly feels guilty.He looks up. 

“Just joking, mate,” PJ says, and gives Phil a wry little smile. He reaches out and pats Phil’s hand. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Phil wants to defuse the moment somehow, maybe wink and make another joke about taking PJ home, but he refrains. He just smiles reassuringly, lets himself enjoy the gentle green of PJ’s eyes and the sparking, golden light of his presence.

** 

It’s gone dark by the time they’re on Phil’s estate, the car crunching up the gravel path that winds through the gardens and up to the courtyard. Phil drives around the fountain in front and parks the car off to the side. 

He unlocks the door and lets them in, flicking a nearby switch so that the chandelier in the foyer bathes the space in light. He pauses then, noting the cobwebs adorning the crystal above them and the dust blanketing all of the cherry wood crown moulding, the mahogany of the elaborate table against the wall—sees all of it through PJ’s eyes. 

“Oh um. Sorry, it’s a bit. A bit of a mess.” He forces a laugh. 

“A mess?” PJ sounds incredulous. “Mate, you have a chandelier. I’m still not over it.”

But Phil sees a little crease between his brows as his eyes linger on the cobwebs. 

**

Two hours later finds them wine-drunk and happy, sat on the ground in front of the TV with their backs against Phil’s bed, eyes glued to Mario Kart. 

“I’ll never understand how you’re so good at this game,” PJ says with a groan as he loses again. 

PJ’s not bad, Phil has to admit, but few people he’s played with have ever been better than him. 

He feels incredibly fond as PJ keels over onto his back and stares wide-eyed at the ceiling. “When’d I get so tipsy, Phil?” he asks, drawing out his name in a singsong voice for a good ten seconds and heaving a dramatic sigh. “Why’d you let me? I feel like I’m back in uni. Too old for this.” 

He scrunches his eyes shut. 

Phil just looks at him and laughs. “You’re welcome to kip here if you need to. Or we can call you a car? Whatever you want.” 

“Mmm, don’t want to put you to any trouble.” PJ’s mumbling now, and Phil is certain he’s about to fall asleep. 

“Not any trouble, you know there’re a few spare bedrooms here.” As he says it, his mind stutters a bit and he wonders if any of those bedrooms are in any condition for PJ to stay in. “Well. May need to tidy a bit.” 

 PJ opens his eyes to look at Phil. “Must be hard taking care of this place, yeah? It’s so big.” He trails off and his eyes sweep over Phil’s room, searching and curious, before coming back to rest on Phil’s face. “Why do you—why do you stay if—?” 

Phil feels his heart race a bit. He figured this line of questioning would start at some point, was hoping PJ wouldn’t think of it in his tipsy state. “Yeah it’s. It’s hard. I—I don’t. I feel … It’s just hard.” 

He looks pleadingly at PJ, asks him with his eyes to drop it. 

PJ nods. “Hm. Okay. If you’re keeping the place, though, why don’t you get some help for the place? Have someone come by to clean? Look after the grounds and things?”  


“Oh, I dunno, PJ. Do I really need a—a maid, or something? A gardener? That’s. It’s crazy.” 

“Not a maid or— _help,”_ he emphasizes the word as though it’s a curse. “Not like what you’re picturing. But this is a uni town, there’s tons of kids looking for easy work to make some quick money on the side. You could hire someone just to tidy a bit. Help you look after the place.” 

Phil stays silent, thinks about the energy needed to put something like that out there, to advertise that he needs cleaning help, and knows he’ll never do it.

“Actually!” PJ yells, and sits up so quickly that Phil nearly jumps. “Sorry, sorry. But, oh my god. Listen. I know this kid, okay? Law student at Manchester, but he’s, like, interested in films and nerd things. Watches my YouTube stuff and messaged me about it ages ago. We’ve DM’ed and texted a bit and I know he’s been in kind of a tough spot with money recently. Why don’t I ask him?”

Phil just furrows his brow. “Peej. Isn’t that such a weird ask? ‘Hi, kid. I have this weird old man friend who’s not really an old man at all but lives all alone in a dusty old mansion complete with chandeliers that he can’t keep clean and state of the art appliances and crown fucking moulding. Want to clean for him?’ I’m so embarrassed just thinking about that, PJ.” 

And he is. His heart is racing and he can feel himself wanting to burst out of his very skin at the notion of some young, fun uni student who’s a friend of PJ’s coming round this place to do his chores for him. 

“Oh, come on—“ PJ starts to protest. 

“No, Peej. It’s—“ he breaks off, trying to collect his thoughts in his tipsy state. “I’m—I’m just not that person, okay? I’m not some rich bastard who’s forgotten how to clean up or take care of himself. That’s not me. I don’t want you to think of me like—I can’t—I—“ and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, wishing he’d drunk a bit less, feeling like there’s some larger conversation happening here that he’s just not present enough for, not prepared enough for, perhaps never will be. 

PJ fully sits up, scoots next to Phil, and puts his arm around his shoulders. “Hey,” he says gently, his hand strokes at Phil’s shoulder a bit, and Phil pleads with his racing thoughts to settle. 

PJ has never meant him harm. 

“I know, Phil. I don’t think you’re anything. You’re just Phil. My mate. And you’re in a spot right now, yeah? I was just making a suggestion to, like. I dunno. Make it three percent easier for you. You’ve been through so much—“

Phil wonders if it makes PJ nervous to talk about this, wonders if he’s become a person that people feel the need to be wary of, to handle with care. Like he is made of spun glass, like he is impending splinters and fractures and cracks, and he knows, suddenly, that he is, to PJ, to all of them. Just as suddenly, he’s so _angry._ He can’t believe they’re sat here, talking about this stuff—his _life—_ on the premise of his getting himself a fucking _maid._

“Yeah. Yeah. I’m overreacting,” he forces out, needing this conversation to end. “I’m sorry. This stuff, this house. It’s just been a lot for me to process. Yeah, ask your friend what he thinks?” 

PJ looks a little thrown by Phil’s sudden change of stance, but nods at him enthusiastically. “Great. Yeah. I’ll ask him. And I really am—I’m sorry, Phil.”

Phil quirks one side of his mouth up at the apology. “Don’t be. Let’s find you somewhere to sleep, yeah?” 

**

PJ ends up sleeping in Phil’s bed, the space between them large enough to fit at least two more full-grown humans. 

Phil stays up hours after he’s crashed, listening to his light snoring, his mind a hazy lattice of fragmented memories and doubt. 

**

He and PJ share pancakes in the morning. Phil wakes up early and puts together a blueberry sauce for them that he knows PJ used to like, and wonders why he is trying so damn hard to prove to one of his oldest friends that he’s still a functional person. 

He relishes in PJ’s wide-eyed happiness when he sees their breakfast and makes an effort to try and get him to laugh before he has to go.

A couple hours later, Phil closes the door behind him and leans his forehead against the cool wood. PJ’s left with the promise of contacting his friend to see about the cleaning help as soon as possible. 

He groans out loud in frustration, finds himself marching with resolve towards the utility closet in the back of the house. He rummages for a duster and a can of wood polish and brings the supplies back to the foyer to get to work on the mahogany table. 

He runs the duster over the gilded vase in the center of the table first and his heart twinges. He remembers picking up the vase in a street-side market, remembers the warmth of Bali, Teddy’s tanned skin, his hands in Phil’s hair and mouth on his neck in their beachside villa. 

The way he’d looked, sun-bleached hair curling with sea salt, blue eyes wide with hope, as he’d knelt in front of Phil on the sand. 

The way the vast ocean stretched out behind him as he’d asked Phil to be his forever. 

**

Phil had always been the person to think and think and consider and reconsider and talk himself in circles before making a decision. He liked to be prepared, liked the solidity of a choice made with all options and potential consequences carefully weighed out and parsed, dissected with precision and then reassembled, a necessary prerequisite to any action taken. 

When Teddy asked Phil to marry him, there’d been no preparation. Nothing in the 23 years of life he’d lived thus far could have readied him for that moment, could have clued him in on what it would feel like to have someone tell you that they want you like this—want you forever—that they cannot picture any version of their life without you in it. 

They’d never talked about marriage. He and Teddy had only had a year together at that point. A whirlwind year in which Teddy had finished his degree and Phil had dropped out, they’d both traveled to four continents, went to film festivals and the world’s most famous museums, drank with some of the world’s most famous actors—all because of the wealth and station of Teddy’s family, and the whimsied fancy that Teddy had taken to film and the cultured circles of the artists in the industry. 

Phil had never felt so exhilarated, so wanted, and so terrified. 

He was terrified that Teddy could quite literally give him anything he wanted. Terrified at the power that that gave him, terrified about the authenticity and source of his own feelings. 

He looked into Teddy’s blue eyes, kneeling there before him in the sand of a private beach in Bali, and thought of his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in nearly two months. Thought of the degree he’d worked for and loved and then given up. 

And then he thought of giving up on a life of being loved the way Teddy loved him. Thought of the travel and the art. Thought of never having to worry about being good enough or smart enough or talented enough or creative enough. 

He whispered out a ‘yes’ through tears, and pulled Teddy up and into his arms. 

** 

His mum was right though, and he should’ve known it then. 

“You’re losing yourself, my love,” she’d said. “This isn’t who you are.”

He thinks of how angry it had made him, how resistant he’d been to hearing her thoughts. He lays down the duster gently, and climbs the winding staircase back to his bedroom. He knows he’s dusted about four square inches of a singular god damn table before giving up again, but he’s too distracted to dwell.

He flops down onto his bed and toys with his phone, missing his mum’s voice and wondering whether to call her. There was a time before all of this when he couldn’t go more than two weeks without seeing her and his dad, made it a habit to call at least a few times a week. 

Now it’s been over a month since they’ve last spoken. 

He pulls up her contact, looks at it a bit, then clicks his phone shut. Tosses it aside and wonders what about his conversation with PJ, what about a bunch of dust and cobwebs, brought all of this on. 

He realizes with a sudden and startling clarity that maybe he’s been grieving. And maybe he’s not quite sure how to fill the absence, how to break the silence, how to care again. But he wants to. 

It’s been so many months now, nearly a year, since— _since_. He needs to. 

He sighs and picks up the phone. Dials without dithering this time. 

He aches to think of the way he crumpled up those dreams she had had for him, his own dreams, really, that she re-wrote in her own hand, treasured and held close to her, always. 

But he’d rejected them, and her, and he has no idea how to make it okay. 

“Child!” comes the warmth of her voice after three rings, and Phil feels tears prick the corners of his eyes. 

“Hi, mum.” 

** 

He gets a text from PJ that night letting him know that his friend Dan is “game” to clean for him and links his contact info so that Phil can set up a time for him to come to the house.

Phil chews on his lip and thinks. 

He taps open a new message and begins drafting.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some points of clarification: dan and phil's age gap here is 5 years. phil is 27. dan makes the first physical move that goes beyond hugging. 
> 
> my interest in writing this quickly became centered on working in as much true-to-life (or their life as i imagine it) detail as i could, and so i worked with the concept that in real life dan and phil had a pretty blatant power difference as well. but i believe that there were attempts made at taking things slow and i believe dan maintained his autonomy, and those details became very important for me to portray in this piece. 
> 
> if any aspect of this makes you uncomfortable please skip this!!! i would so much rather you stay safe x 
> 
> oh, and come say hi on tumblr if you like :) i'm @nihilist-toothpaste on there, and i'm happy to answer questions about this or anything else fic-related over there <33


	2. Chapter 2

Dan comes over on a Saturday. 

Phil wakes up early that morning to do a walk-through of the house and decide what exactly he’s going to tell Dan when he arrives. 

Buttering a couple of slices of toast and wrapping them in a napkin, he eats as he goes through every room, noting with a sinking heart that nearly all of them other than his bedroom, his bathroom, and the kitchen, are covered in dust and mired in the thick, musty smell of disuse. 

He pushes out to the back veranda and into the grounds to the adjacent gardens and pool. The gardens have held up alright. It’s spring now and the cherry orchard is in full bloom, the perennial bulbs, alliums, and irises filling the flowerbeds nearest him. 

He stops a moment to take in the flowers and feels a smile stirring somewhere deep despite himself. 

Phil dreads what he’ll find as he pushes through the gates to the pool area. The pool is a long rectangle, surrounded by reddish-brown tiling. There’s a stucco outhouse nearby with a terra cotta roof, containing showers and changing rooms, and several lounge chairs stacked together neatly in the corner. 

This space was gorgeous once. Phil can’t remember the last time he was out here or the last time he even spared the pool a thought, as he takes in the water now covered in algae and scum, stagnant and murky and colored a dingy brownish-green. 

The now familiar acrid feeling of shame and guilt is burning in his stomach as he crosses the gardens back to the house. Dan will be here in ten minutes and he doesn’t know what he should say, how to explain this mess, how he can possibly ask someone to take care of him and this house. 

** 

Phil told Dan to come around 11 am. He shows up at 11:13. 

The doorbell rings and Phil feels his whole chest constricting, drawing inwards, as he opens the door. The rushing anxiety of having someone new here, in this space, looking at his things, judging him for his mess, his junk, this house—

And then there’s Dan, stood there on the stoop in front of the door, biting at his lip and looking, somehow, just as nervous as Phil feels.

“Um, hi, uh. Sir. Sorry I’m late, the bus out here took fucking forever. Oh. Uh. Excuse my language. It was just, like, way further than I was expecting and to be honest mornings are hard for me anyway? But, obviously now I know, this won’t be happening again, I’ll definitely make sure I take the commute time into account, I’m sorry—“ he breaks off to give Phil an apologetic smile and Phil feels a strange urge to poke the dimples that appear in his cheeks. 

Phil senses that he’s staring a little too intently at Dan and that he possibly hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds. He wills every part of him that is fluttering and frantic to at least make an attempt at settling somewhere in the region of calm and says, “No worries at all. About any of that. The being late and the—the swearing. And, for fuck’s sake, please don’t call me ‘sir.’” 

He’s hoping to make Dan laugh and feels something glowing and lovely light up within him when he succeeds. 

“Sorry, um. Phil?” 

Phil nods and smiles, steps back from the door so that Dan can enter. 

**

Dan is quiet while Phil walks him through the house, stuttering through explanations of each room, and familiarizing him with the general layout of the place.

They’ve covered most of the inside and Phil knows he’ll have to show Dan the grounds and the pool as well. So far he’s mostly avoided making any eye contact with Dan, fearing the cold judgment or the unvoiced questions he might find there. He knows he doesn’t deserve a space like this, especially when he can’t even handle its upkeep, and wants to avoid the stark reminder of that reality reflected back at him in the eyes of a stranger. 

“So that’s all of the rooms in here, and then there’s—um—there’s the outside too. Do you—are you—do you know about looking after pools and things?” 

Dan just stares at him for a split second before he repeats, “Pools and things?” 

“Yeah, I—I have a pool? And I—it’s just in bad shape. I was wondering if you’d be interested in helping with the maintenance there as well? Obviously if you—if that’s not something you can do, then I can probably look into hiring—“ 

“Phil, no, it’s fine! I actually spent a whole summer minding the pool at a vacation house that my nan rented one year. I should be able to handle it.” Dan shoots him a winning smile. 

“Okay, but, um. I should just warn you that mine is—it’s _really_ in bad shape. Shall we go look?” 

**

Dan’s eyes are wide as he stares at the pool and he’s biting into his lip, and Phil has no idea what he’s thinking. He doesn’t know how to ask. Luckily, Dan saves him the trouble by turning to look him in the eyes and then immediately breaking out into breathy giggles. 

“Holy shit, Phil. What happened out here? When’s the last time you’ve even _been_ out here? ‘Bad shape,’ oh my god. Actual fucking slime!” He breaks off and his giggles have turned into a loud laugh now. It’s a full-body sort of thing, his shoulders shaking, his torso nearly bent in half as he tries to catch his breath. 

Phil is somehow simultaneously wishing he could melt into a large puddle and drip into the pool to become one with the algae, and fighting back a smile as he watches Dan lose himself in his laughter. 

Perhaps realizing that Phil is still not answering him, Dan calms himself down, and resumes a neutral expression, though the corners of his mouth are still twitching. “Sorry. I’m being so unprofessional already, aren’t I? First I show up here late, and now I’m standing here losing my shit over your pool. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Phil can only shake his head, before Dan is continuing. 

“I should just be totally clear that, like, apart from work experience I did a couple years back and short stints at Asda and a DIY store—and I won’t even tell you how those ended up—this is one of my first real jobs working closely with an employer, and I’m not—I’m sorry if I’m fucking it all up. I know you’re friends with PJ, and I’ve seen you in a couple of his really old videos, so I think maybe that’s why I’m—I’m—“ 

“It’s fine, Dan,” says Phil, and something about the earnestness with which Dan is addressing him, the nerves that are audible in his voice once more, the candor in his wide brown eyes, make it so that Phil’s not even lying. 

This boy, with his annoyingly, perfectly styled fringe and trendy skinny jeans had just stood here and laughed himself silly at the state of Phil’s pool, and it’s _fine._ And he means it. 

“I get it, honestly. And I actually prefer that you’re treating me—not like an employer. I would like if we could communicate more directly than all that, and obviously I—I want you to feel comfortable here, helping me out. Is this pool—do you think it’s beyond saving?”

Dan laughs again. “No. But, we’ll need to check out the equipment you have.” 

“Equipment?”

**

Dan follows Phil up the staircase to his bedroom, as he seeks out his laptop so that he and Dan can order all of the pool-cleaning equipment he’ll need. He hadn’t taken Dan in here during the earlier tour as he’d wanted to keep at least this room private, but he finds he can’t assert himself and ask Dan to wait for him downstairs. 

So Dan awkwardly lingers near the door as Phil digs around in his rumpled sheets for his laptop. 

He grabs it and sees Dan eyeing the corner where his television is. “Oh my God. Mario Kart?!” he all but yelps. 

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites."

“Mine too! It’s honestly concerning, how addicted I am. I’m, like, ridiculously good.” And he shoots a smirk in Phil’s direction. 

“Me too,” says Phil, trying valiantly to match Dan’s confidence. 

“Definitely not as good as me, I guarantee it. Can I—May I—Can I look at your movies? Is that weird? Honestly, please feel free to tell me at any time that I need to learn what boundaries are.” 

“Yeah, uh. Yeah. You can look at them.” 

And he realizes as Dan does, that he cares about Dan’s opinion. He knows next to nothing about this boy, but he’s standing here hoping that he’ll approve of his taste.

It turns out that Dan doesn’t even make it to the storied Tower of Blu-rays, because he’s thoroughly side-tracked by Phil’s copy of Final Fantasy VII lying on the floor. 

He squeaks at it, actually squeaks, and then turns to Phil with a face full of exasperation. “Are you kidding me? You just leave the loose disc out? On the floor? That’s despicable at the best of times, but this is _Final Fantasy. Seven._ Oh my god. As your brand new housekeeper-slash-poolboy I demand that you find the sleeve for this and put it back where it belongs.” 

How is this his life, Phil wonders, not for the first nor even the forty-seventh time this week. He picks up the disc and starts rummaging around the truly shocking mess that is his games cabinet, looking for the sleeve, smiling despite everything as he loses himself to conversation with Dan about the game—the characters, the world, the music, and the way that all of it has emblazoned itself upon both of their hearts. 

He somehow tidies all of his games and all of his films and all of the clothing on his floor in one fell swoop.

**

**PJ Liguori** : How was the kid? 

**Phil** : Honestly … strange? He was excited about everything. Who is that excited to clean? But good … Really on top of things I think and knows what he’s doing. You were right. I needed this

**PJ Liguori** : Ha! Yeah he’s an enthusiastic one. Can you please just text me you were right at least 50 more times I think I deserve it

**Phil** : Hate u

**PJ Liguori** : Love u too babes xxxxx

**

The next Saturday, Phil doesn’t see Dan much. He gets to the house promptly at 11 this time and comes in to grab all of the newly bought equipment, saying he wants to get started right away. 

Phil doesn’t blame him. The task at hand seems insurmountable to his eyes. 

But some part of him feels this is unjust, sat inside with aircon and picking at the half-hearted salad he’d made himself, chasing the pomegranate seeds around the bottom of his bowl with his fork, while Dan is outside literally cleaning up his mess on one of the hottest days of the spring thus far. 

He does the washing up with half his mind outside, on Dan, and decides to mix a pitcher of freshly-squeezed lemonade, juicing the citrus fruits the way his mum taught him and spiking the concoction with a bit of soda water. He runs upstairs to grab his camera, then takes the lemonade and a second pitcher filled with water out to the pool. 

Dan’s stood at the edge of the pool, an array of bottles around him and a device with a very long handle that looks to be some sort of weird broom-vacuum hybrid in his hands. He’s wearing shorts that hit significantly far above his knee and Phil takes in the sight of his long legs as he approaches. 

Dan turns as he approaches and seems to catch him looking. Phil feels his face start to color, despite pleading with all of the blood in his vessels to stay firmly in its place and just be _normal_ for once. 

“Hey,” Dan says, with a little smile. He sets down his vacuum thing, and comes and lets Phil in through the short gate. “What’s all this?” 

“Well. I felt bad, because it’s so hot today. So I thought I’d make you something to drink?”

It comes out like a question. He feels insecure all of a sudden and his mind is already fleeing the situation, retreating back into the air conditioned luxury that is the Great Indoors, specifically upstairs, tucked away under his sheets, and far away from Dan. 

“Oh, God, I mean, there was no need, but, wow, thank you,” says Dan, all in a rush. 

“S’nothing,” mumbles Phil, and plops the tray with the pitchers down on one of the lounging chairs. 

“What’s the camera for?” 

“Oh. I thought I’d come out and film a bit. I—um—I shoot videos sometimes, when I’m—I dunno. I like shooting videos.” Phil doesn’t know how to explain his interest in any detail without inviting more questions, and he’s decided he would very much like to be done with this conversation now. 

“That’s awesome! Like PJ? Or?” 

“No, not really like PJ. Different, for sure. Anyway, I’ll be over there—“ he gestures vaguely in the direction of the trees. “I guess I thought it’d be, like, I could be close. If you need me or anything.” 

Dan smiles again. It’s honey-sweet and soft at the edges. “Cool. Thanks, Phil. For the lemonade and stuff. Have fun filming.” 

Phil manages a smile back and wanders away, towards the orchard. He tries to focus on his shots, tracking a bee as it flits between blossoms, but his mind is buzzy and recalcitrant in its unwillingness to quiet.

**

On Wednesday, he calls his mum again. Their last call had been pleasant in a way that had made Phil ache and smile in equal measure. But Phil hadn’t known how to move past pleasantries, how to excavate all of the hurt, ancient and fossilized now, and wrap it neatly in a bow, let it pass from his hands to hers. 

He’d told her he misses her cakes and the seaside on the Isle of Man. 

She’d said that she misses _him_ and his “big old brain,” and he’d been lost for words. More than once, he felt the silence fill with the unspoken weight of both of them counting, but trying not to, enumerating the months but never voicing it, trying to avoid the stark reality of just how long it’d been since they’d seen each other last. 

This feels like his oldest instinct, the urge to be close to her and have her love him, stroke his hair back from his brow, and whisper that everything will be okay. 

He calls her now and just starts talking, knowing she’ll listen. 

He details the new movies he’d seen that week, how it feels to be filming again. The weight of the camera in his hands after so long is something he’d not been able to express in words when it’d just been him alone in his thoughts. It’s something he’s not even sure he consciously decided to do, but suddenly, with his mum down the line, he doesn’t know how to stop describing it, doesn’t know how not to be excited to watch the whole world unfold in front of him through his camera, waiting to be captured. 

He talks to her about his ideas. And he tells her about Dan, about wanting to get this house—perhaps a proxy for something much larger and as yet nameless—back in order. 

“He’s funny. Talks a lot. And it feels nice, you know, like I’m actually finally moving again, even if it’s just wiggling my toes and fingers. But it has to start somewhere, I guess,” he says with a frown, mulling over yet another series of thoughts he hadn’t realized he’d been having until this very instant. 

“Oh, chickie,” says his mum, concern coloring her voice. “I’m ever so proud of you, you know that right? You’ve always done what’s best and I’m just … so very proud. I simply can’t wait to see what you’re working on.”   
  
The gentle lilt of her voice pulls him, and he says it without thinking: “Mum, I—I wanted to say, too, that I’m sorry.”

There’s a pause and he just listens to her breathe. 

“Well, I—whatever for, dear?” 

He has no idea what to say to that. 

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, Phil. Your father and I, we love you very much. Come see us soon, okay? I’ll have all the cakes you could want ready and waiting for you.” 

It’s not enough to fix them, but it’s something, and Phil feels a part of him that’s been wound tight for nearly three years unfurl with the spring breeze. 

“Love you, mum.” 

“Love you too, sweetheart.” 

**

Phil winces as Dan slams a cabinet door shut with what Phil fears is something like _emphasis_ or maybe even _anger._

“Honestly, Phil, the least you could do to help out a poor bugger like me is close your blooming cabinets after you’ve finished rummaging around in them!” But there’s a smile tugging at Dan’s mouth and Phil isn’t sure how to respond. 

“Um … sorry?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Dan says and continues down the line. Then he stops short. “What is this all over the counters? I just cleaned these last week!” 

It’s only Dan’s third time cleaning and he’s been here all of ten minutes today and Phil feels racked with guilt. “Oh. I’m—I’m sorry. That’s sugar. I was trying to—You don’t have to worry, I can do—“ 

But Dan, clearly listening not at all, doesn’t let him finish. “Sugar! What the fuck, man! It’s all over the counters! What could you possibly have been up to, tracking it halfway round the kitchen like this?” 

Dan is digging through some drawers now, fishing out cleaning solution and extra kitchen roll. He shoots him a playful glare and starts mopping up all of the various forms of particulate matter adorning the white Calacatta marble countertops. “Dunno how you coped without me, mate.” 

This, Phil can handle. “I didn’t,” he says simply, and means it. 

He doesn’t know what it is about Dan. Something about him is frightening—his straightforwardness, his high-pitched squeals shattering the silence when Phil least expects it. But the rest of him feels soft and familiar, an autumn candle at half-glow, filling this enormous house with the sort of soothing light that Phil hadn’t known it needed.

**

Dan’s outside at the pool again an hour later, and Phil brings him two of the cookies he’d baked that morning, the very ones that had caused the unsightly sugar trails in his kitchen. 

“This is … so sweet,” Dan says, looking shocked as he takes a bite. “Maybe sickeningly so.”

“That’s how I always like them,” says Phil, defensively. 

Dan makes a series of wholly indecent noises as he really starts to dig in, and something in Phil squirms and wriggles just so, under the onslaught.“I forgive you for your mess, I think,” says Dan, mouth full. 

There are crumbs falling from his mouth as he talks, and he’s blushing as he mops his face. Phil knows his face has gone pink too, but finds he can’t look away. 

**

**Phil:** [Image Attached] Made blueberry sauce for my pancakes and didn’t spill any sugar

**Phil:** [Image Attached] Closed the cabinets too 

He doesn’t know why he sends them. Thus far he and Dan have only ever texted to confirm dates and times for Dan to come by. But he was thinking of Dan this morning after his breakfast and then the thinking snowballed into snapping photos and then texting, all before Phil could consider the matter too deeply. 

It’s only 8:30 a.m. on a Thursday so, given his assumption that Dan will see his text hours later, when he’s arisen past noon like any standard uni student, he’s shocked that Dan actually responds in under five minutes. 

**Dan Howel** l: well thank fuck for that 

**Phil** : Can’t accuse me of not caring *yellow heart emoji*

**Dan Howell** : when have i ever, mr brings-me-cookies-and-lemonade-and-always-worries-about-me-overheating 

**Dan Howell** : you’re like a doting mum 

**Phil** : I can’t believe you actually put forward the effort needed to use that many hyphens in a text

**Dan Howell** : fuck off i’m bored. 

**Phil** : It’s 8:30 in the morning. Things do tend to be boring this time of day. What were you expecting

**Dan Howell** : [Image Attached] well i’d love to see u try and read through 80 pages of this shit in two hours flat. then u can talk 

Phil actually makes an effort to read through the text in the image Dan has sent and understands less than twenty percent of it, bloated as it is with lots of technical terminology and jargon. It gets him curious though. 

**Phil** : Looks horrendous. I just realized I don’t even know what you study. I think PJ said law? Did I make that up? The textbook looks like law. 

**Dan Howell** : nope thats right. law. fuck me up the ass

**Phil** : ?

**Dan Howell** : it sucks. it sucks so so so so much. i have so much to read. my eyeballs are jelly. exam on monday and i’m so entirely fucked for it phil 

**Phil** : Well I’ll let you study then. Do you need to take a break and skip cleaning this weekend? 

**Dan Howell** : nah it’ll be a good break. why the fuck do u think i’m up this early??? i’ve been planning my work around it :) i’m the world’s most effective and meticulous study 

**Phil** : Okay then :) Proud of you *balloon emoji* 

**Phil** : I’ll see you Saturday 

**Dan Howell** : small blessings. bye phil pls pray for me :( 

**Phil** : *warthog emoji*

**

That night, Phil puts the finishing touches on the video he’s been filming and editing for the last couple of weeks. 

The run time is a little over two minutes, and it’s a warped, neon fever dream of a thing. He’d spliced together lots of shots he’d taken outside in the orchard with some shots of himself, twisting himself into poses and shapes that, in his opinion, are both beautiful and grotesque. He’d messed with audio, distorting sounds in garage band, no real goal in mind, and layering the tracks over his visuals as he went. 

He’s not quite sure what he’s made but he feels alight with it, shot through with the bright spark of the knowledge that he can do this, still. He can make things, create again. 

He watches the final cut over and over and over that night. He doesn’t know what he’ll do with it and he knows he can make better, but he loves it with a fervent intensity all the same because _he_ made it. He _made_ it. And it’s _good._

**

A few weeks pass, and April’s end approaches with all its usual bluster, rife with blush pink sunsets and the smell of fresh earth. 

He sees PJ twice more, and even takes the time to message some of his old friends from uni. PJ organizes a dinner and games night for a bunch of their old crew and Phil actually goes. It’s horrible for the first ten minutes, to be met with comment after comment along the lines of “Been a while, man,” or “Where’ve you been?” but after the initial surprise subsides, he feels himself sinking back into the group with ease. 

The night is not just tolerable, it’s _fun._

He and Dan have texted some more in between Dan’s visits, and Phil has begun to look forward to Dan’s messages, finding that Dan’s fierce energy and aggressive opinions always make him laugh. 

He’s only ever been honest with himself, or so he likes to think, especially when it comes to his emotions. He knows he’s developing something akin to infatuation for Dan, and it’s both surprising and totally unsurprising in its suddenness. 

There’s absolutely no point to these feelings, Phil knows. No outcome in sight, no end goal. Dan is his employee. He is so many years younger than Phil, and, for all he knows, completely heterosexual or completely taken. 

But Phil hasn’t felt anything for anyone since Teddy, has hardly left his house for that matter, soif there’s some joy to be found in encouraging Dan’s brash humor, in allowing his eyes to linger a bit too long on his dimples and his long, long legs, well—Phil finds no reason to deprive himself. He’s been through too much, lived so much life in so few years, to pine after some ill-fated, ill-advised crush. 

Confident in his pragmatism, Phil worries for all of three minutes about these feelings, and then—like so much else in his life—he lets those worries go. 

There’s no harm in a bit of flirting, a bit of staring, and Dan has lapped up the attention happily. A win-win situation, Phil thinks, and sleeps easy. 

**

It’s another Saturday morning, at promptly 10:48 a.m. on the dot, when Dan bursts through the front door with gusto. 

“This is it, Phil,” he says with an exceptionally melodramatic flair, pausing at least a second or two between each word. 

He has his own key now, and Phil had only made it halfway down the stairs after hearing Dan’s courteous ring of the doorbell, before he’d opened the door himself and announced his arrival with this ambiguous greeting. 

It’s before 11 am on a Saturday and there is a Dan standing here in his foyer, Phil muses, looking as though he’s either shivering or very nearly vibrating with his own energy. 

“This is _it,”_ Dan repeats. 

“Erm. What’s it?” Phil asks. His voice is croaky and deep to his own ears. He’d allowed himself a lie-in this Saturday morning and sleep still lingers, eroding the edges of his words.

“This,” says Dan simply. “The very last weekend of freedom I may well have before I lose my soul to the horrors of final exams.” 

“Oh. Those are soon aren’t they?” Phil wants to smack himself for the dumb question. Obviously they’re soon. That’s the whole point Dan’s making right now. He rushes on, saying, “Well, I’m honored to have seen you this one last time before your soul is sacrificed to the awful and bloodthirsty beast that is finals.” 

“You think this is a joke.”   
  
“I don’t, no,” says Phil, and he’s proud of the stark solemnity he’s injected into his tone. He’s stood right in front of Dan now, eyes lingering on the muted hues of purple-grey-blue blooming under his eyes, the way his skin looks dry and pallid, stretched tight over his bones. He looks so tired. “Never been more serious. Are you sleeping, Dan? Do you need to stop working here for a while?”

Dan’s brow creases in confusion. “What? No! I’m fine. I mean—fucking stressed, obviously. But you know I need the break, and—and the money you’re giving me with this, Phil.” 

Both his voice and expression have gone soft and sheepish and Phil feels an urge to gather him in his arms, maybe wrap him in a blanket and fix him a cup, or several, of his best Darjeeling. 

“I really did mean it that this gig is a great distraction from everything that’s shit about school right now. It’s been—it’s been good really. And I’m taking the weekend off before things get really intense. Ergo,” and the melodrama is back, as he places undue emphasis on the Latin that he’s no doubt supremely excited to deploy in this altogether mundane conversation, “me telling you that This. Is. It. The very last weekend in which I am a man with soul. Pity me for I have but numbered days left, my friend.” He holds the back of his hand up to his brow and turns his gaze upwards. 

Phil is trying his best not to laugh, sounding instead like a human approximating the sounds of a pig wearing a muzzle. “Okay. Well, let’s make today a good one then. Work on whatever room you want, or the pool, and I’ll make you something. A treat. Is that okay?” 

Dan, who’d been eyeing him warily as he tried to conceal his laughs, drops the act, and gives him a genuine smile. “A treat? I’m not—there’s no need at all, Phil, honestly.” 

“I know. But I want to.”

**

A couple hours later, after Dan’s gone out to the pool and Phil has finished his lunch, Phil gets to work crushing mint and blueberries. He mixes these in with rum and lime juice,pours in an ample amount of sugar, and decants the whole mixture in a large glass pitcher, adding more blueberries, mint sprigs, and a few slices of lime as garnish. 

The drink has gone a lovely sort of magenta, offset by the purple-blue of the berries and the bright green of the mint and lime. It’s gorgeous, Phil thinks, and warms at the thought of bringing Dan something so pretty, seeing his face light up with the joy of it.

**

“Holy fucking shit, you never told me you were a mixologist,” says Dan. It’s been uncommonly hot this spring, so Dan has changed into an oversized tank and _those_ shorts again, and he’s sat with his legs in the pool, ostensibly under the pretense of pH-balancing the water. 

“There’s lots to learn about me, Daniel. Are you even working or just getting some sun? Don’t know what I’m paying you for, really,” Phil says, grinning at Dan’s scandalized expression. 

He’s joking, of course. The pool water has gone crystalline—an icy, sublime blue—under Dan’s careful attention and he knows that Dan knows exactly how grateful he is to have him here. 

He sits down next to Dan, dipping his legs into the pool for the first time in over a year. The pitcher of blueberry mojito sits between them. 

“This looks delicious, Phil,” says Dan, and proceeds to pour out two tall glasses of the drink. 

Phil takes his glass and feels the diaphanous sweetness of this moment, wrapped up in Dan like pink candyfloss, and wanting him to know, somehow. 

They clink glasses. 

“Cheers, Dan,” he says softly, fighting unexpected nerves because he’d not planned what to say. He’d not planned on saying anything at all, but the words spill from him unbidden. “To you, really. You’ve—I don’t really know how to do toasts. How to do much of anything actually, of late. But you—you’re helping in so many ways I didn’t know I needed. Thank you. And … you’re going to ace those exams.” 

Dan doesn’t say anything, gaze fixed on him, unflinching and sure, as he takes a sip of his drink. Phil follows his lead. 

“Mmm. Fuck, Phil. This is so fucking good. Thank you.” 

He’s quiet, and Phil marvels at it, at _Dan_ , caught up in his thoughts maybe, looking down into the water and sipping on a mojito that Phil had put in his hands, all jutting collarbones, sloping shoulders, seemingly endless miles of smooth and lovely skin. 

“You’re welcome,” he says. 

**

They’re drunk. 

Phil can feel the tell-tale buzzing in his toes, the heat low in his stomach, the vacant white noise in his brain. There are literal birds chirping overhead and he wants to sprawl out, feel thewarmth of the sun-soaked tiles on his back, and lie there, looking at clouds, reveling in the size of the world around them. 

Dan is adorable when he’s drunk, Phil finds. He’s giggling at nothing and everything, flopping down on the tiles before Phil has even finished thinking it over, and making cute grabby hands in his direction for Phil to join him on the ground. 

“Phillll. Fuck you, Phil! You know what? Fuck you.” 

Phil’s bewildered but eases his body down beside Dan’s anyway. “Why fuck me?” 

Dan’s spluttering and red at this, and he looks upset. “Excuse me? Are you propositioning me? Positively obscene. Anyway,” he drags out the word. “Fuck you for all of this. For being so damn lovely all the time. Making me cookies, and—and fucking drinks that taste like the tears of actual fairies! Fuck you. You play Final Fantasy. No one back at uni is this fun or nice or good, I hate you.” 

Phil blinks at him, wide-eyed. The thought occurs to him that they’re lying on hard terra cotta tiles, legs still submerged in pool water, and Dan’s yelling at him for being nice. He loves this. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, plaintive and slow—dramatic to a degree that he hopes will make Dan proud. And then his mouth is pouting and he can’t control it. He’s always found that whilst drunk, his lips betray him first. Memories flood in of many nights spent in front of bathroom mirrors pulling funny faces with his mouth, his lips having gone slightly numb and tingling from the alcohol. 

Now, his bottom lip is jutting out and he’s full-on pouting at Dan.

“Aw, Phil, you can’t do that! You can’t!” It comes out as a shriek, mixed with peals of laughter, and Dan is so _fucking_ cute, Phil thinks he could die. Then he’s reaching towards Phil’s mouth and pushing at his bottom lip, trying to force it away. “Put it back! Put it back!” 

Phil snorts. He laughs and laughs, because Dan—because _Dan._ Because he can’t think to do anything else. 

Dan is grinning back at him. “I mean it, though, Phil. You’re—this—it’s just so good. I fucking hate uni. Wish I could have friends like you there. What the fuck, you know? We’ve known each other all of a month and some days, and you’re already so much better than any of my actual friends.” 

Phil wonders if these are lines they shouldn’t be crossing, remembers in an instant that he’s technically Dan’s employer. He doesn’t know what to say, feeling a little dizzy with Dan’s words. 

“I fucking hate uni. Guess I should be grateful it’s over so soon,” says Dan darkly, and then he’s heaving a sigh, his eyes closed. 

“You’re year three right? Feel like we’ve done everything backwards. There’s so many basics I still don’t even know.”  


“Yeah. Year three. Nearing the end, and all that.” 

“What are your plans for—for after?” 

Phil immediately knows the question is a misstep. Dan turns his dark expression on him, and glares—really glares this time. “If I had any fucking clue, do you think I’d feel this way? I don’t. I have no idea. I’m fucking lost. I don’t know what I’m good at. I’m getting this degree—and honestly who fucking knows if I’ll even pass, right? There’s still finals. I’m passing by the skin of my teeth though, just barely, and I have no fucking idea, Phil, none. What I’m good at, what I’m doing, what I’m _meant_ to be doing … whether there’s a _point_ to any fucking thing, really. None of it. I don’t know anything.” 

Phil’s stunned into silence and realizes with horror that Dan’s eyes have gone a bit glassy. 

He’s moving, acting on sheer instinct, rolling closer to Dan and pulling him forward to face him. “Hey,” he says softly, his hand stroking at Dan’s shoulder, and then his hair. “Hey, please. It’s—it’s okay, Dan. It is. It is.” 

And Dan’s looking everywhere except at him, tremulous and fearful maybe, and it’s all gone to shit, and Phil feels horrible. He catches some of the wetness at the corner of Dan’s eye with his thumb, wipes it out and away from his face. “It’s okay, Dan. What you’re feeling is so—it’s so understandable. And, normal, yeah? I’m sorry. I’m shit at this. I don’t know what you need me to say. Please, just…” 

Dan’s scrunched his eyes shut at this point and is shaking his head. “I’m so fucked up, I’m so sorry, Phil, I’m sorry. Imagine you, coming out here with drinks, being so lovely, and me fucking crying about my life to you, I’m so sorry—“ 

And Phil is getting properly scared now, because Dan is speaking all in a rush and his breathing has gone a bit funny and frantic.

“Dan, Dan, please. I need you to breathe, okay? Follow my breaths. Just breathe with me. Please.” 

They lie there for a time, Phil continuing to rub his hand gently along Dan’s shoulder while Dan calms down, timing his breaths to Phil’s. 

He finally opens his eyes, and gives Phil a wry smile. 

Before he can apologize again, Phil is speaking. “It’s okay, Dan. Don’t feel bad. I get it. Uni is hard, it’s so hard. There’s just so much pressure on you, and you’re expected to know what course fits you best when you’re just 18 and choosing the direction you want your life to go. It’s so much. What you feel is so valid, it makes so much sense.” 

Dan stays quiet. “I think—I think I know all of that,” he says after a minute has passed.“When I stop to really think about it. But so often I’m just caught up thinking how things might be different if I was just smarter, if I could just fucking discipline myself to work and study as hard as I need to to get the scores I want, if I could do the fucking readings to have an actually informed sense of which subjects even interest me. I know nothing though. I really don’t.” 

“There aren’t any classes you’ve liked in the whole course?” 

He’s quiet a moment, thinking. “Well there’s one now, Law, Gender, and Sexuality, which has been—it’s been interesting.”

"Why's it interesting?" asks Phil. 

And then Dan is rambling at length about how gender and sexuality aren’t intersections you’d necessarily think about with law, but this whole course dedicated to it had completely flipped his perspective, in detailing the particular legal struggles women have faced within and because of the judicial system, and gay and trans people too, all of it mixed in with so much history that Dan says he never knew. 

“I think it’s the fact that it’s about actual people that makes me like it so much,” he says hesitantly, voice gone quiet and rough around the edges. “Actual, living people, who have been oppressed by our laws but for whom maybe the law can change or be interpreted and applied more favorably. I—I like that the class has taught me to see our body of laws as a dynamic entity in that way, like we can change it, you know? Am I even making sense? I’m so fucking drunk. Emotional drunk. S’embarrasing.” 

“Makes perfect sense,” says Phil. “And not embarrassing. You’re just—you’re real. Thank you for trusting me.” Because this version of Dan, in all of his vulnerability and passion—Phil would happily listen to him talk about any of this for as long as he wanted. 

Dan just looks at him for a few moments, eyes brown and red-rimmed, staring into his own. 

“So we can change this stuff for the better, right?” he finally says. “Maybe. Or we can … try. The law ought to be just, but it isn’t. It’s never been. But maybe we can fight for it to be. That class makes me feel that. And I like my human rights law class, too, so much, for probably the same reason. But everything else is, like. Intellectual property. Contracts. Please actually murder me.” 

Phil just nods, hoping that playing the role of sounding board is enough, not knowing how exactly to voice his support without crossing into the realm of being too emphatic or, god forbid, patronizing, in offering Dan advice that he’s not really asked for. 

“I dunno, Phil,” says Dan with a sigh, bringing his palms up to his eyes and scrubbing his face. “It’s all well and good to like a class or two, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m lazy and close to failing at any given moment, and I don’t know how to turn any of this into an actual job that’ll pay me, I don’t know if I’ll actually be good at anything, when I’m out there in the world … you know?” 

“I do know,” says Phil. “I really do. I—I feel it too. Lost. Like there’s nothing I’m good at anymore, and I—“ He trails off. He doesn’t even really know what he’s saying, how to put words to a feeling he’s fought for so long. He just needs Dan to feel less alone. 

Dan stares at him, brow furrowed again, looking confused. “You? Lost? I don’t understand.” 

“It’s the same thing as you really. There are things I liked, a long time ago, things I hoped to do, and now—I dunno. I’m—just not good—don’t know what I want, actually, and it’s—“ 

“Phil, stop. Honestly stop. What are you even talking about?” His tone is just shy of aggressive and Phil stops short. 

“Sorry?” 

“I just don’t understand. You have—look at this place. You have _everything._ You don’t have to worry about surviving and paying the bills. You film videos for fun because you like it. You play games and watch movies, and that’s all anyone expects of you. That’s most people’s fucking dream, do you realize that?” 

Phil’s blood feels frozen and the ache has returned to his chest. That Dan could be so presumptuous, could think so little of him beneath the fond and affectionate exterior he’s always shown him—it hurts. 

“Sorry,” says Phil. “But … you know fuck all about my life, Dan. You don’t know a single thing I’ve gone through to end up in this house, with this money.” 

Dan’s eyes go wide.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe no one has expectations for me and I’m free to watch movies all day. But _I_ have expectations for me. And they’re—not that. So much more than that, more than what I’ve been and done.” 

Phil wonders if he’s being too hostile. But Dan’s words had stung, digging claws into places deep and vulnerable and soft within him, places he’s never exposed to anyone. 

“I’d kill to be passionate about something the way you are about that law and gender class, to just be learning something again, moving _forward_ with my life, using my mind for something good!” Phil continues. “And you _can_ turn that into a job. Of course you can. Be a lawyer and an advocate for those trans kids, those queer kids, those women, who still face that oppression. Fight for the change you talked about. You can do so much. You know that. So what are _you_ even talking about, really?” 

A minute passes, then two. 

Dan doesn’t answer. 

Just like that, they’re both lying there with no words left to say, warm tiles beneath them, birds chirping overhead, and pool water lapping gently at their feet. 

**

Dan leaves soon after, saying he should get home to meet up with his friends. Phil tries not to think about how these were the very people he’d been complaining about an hour ago and sends him off in a car he’s ordered, nervous about the mix of Dan’s drunkenness and Manchester public transport. Dan insists he’s practically sober. Phil orders the car anyway. 

There’s an awkward moment at the front door, Dan appearing to waver on the doorstep as he looks for something to say. Phil is searching for words as well, but finds he’s not ready to say anything yet, so he settles for patting Dan on the shoulder, forcing his mouth into a tight-lipped smile. 

“I’ll see you next week, Dan.” 

“Okay, uh—“ Dan looks startlingly young in this moment, eyes wide and his normally immaculate hair mussed and a bit disheveled. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Dan Howell** : [Image Attached] i know i’ve asked u before, but this time i mean it. need ur prayers. need all the support i can get. finals are hell

The image is a stack of thick textbooks, piled nearly out of the shot. 

It is Monday morning, the time’s just gone half nine, and Dan is sending him a photo of his books, accompanied by one of his very standard cheeky texts. 

Phil is immensely confused. 

It’s only been two days—less than two days really—since their unexpectedly incisive conversation by the pool, and Phil had been certain they wouldn’t talk again till the next time Dan came round the house. He doesn’t even know what he wants to say to Dan, doesn’t know how to make sense of the way his words had made him feel.

There was anger, of course, and then the creeping tendrils of self-doubt that have ensnared him for so, so long now, following in the anger’s wake. 

That this is how everyone he knows secretly thinks of him is a thought he cannot shake. That Dan had sounded so frighteningly similar to Teddy, the last time they spoke, is a truth he refuses to entertain. 

But he has nothing to say to Dan right now, refusing point-blank to carry forward with their interactions on this casual level, as though they’d not just bared these pieces of themselves to one another less than 48 hours prior. 

He clicks his phone closed, tosses it aside, and digs himself deeper under his covers. 

**

The doorbell rings just after 6 p.m. that evening. 

Phil is still in pyjamas, nestled into his sheets, going over some footage he’d shot yesterday. Groaning, he works himself out of his cocoon, wondering why the hell someone is ringing his doorbell at this time of the evening. 

And then he hears the door open. His heart freezes for a moment, and he panics. 

No one has the key to this house except Dan. 

His mind fills with scenes from the crime dramas he’s been binging before he can stop it. He scans the room for something to use as a weapon, and immediately runs through any possible exit strategy he has, trapped as he is in his upstairs bedroom. 

“Phil!” comes a shout from downstairs, cutting smoothly through Phil’s terrified panic. “Phil! Are you home?” 

**

“Dan? What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, having descended the stairs immediately, his heart racing. 

Phil takes a moment to marvel at the sight of Dan, standing there in ripped up, skin-tight black jeans and a dusty pink scoop neck t shirt that’s at least three sizes too large and hangs off his frame, exposing his collarbones. He’s got small gold rings in his ears and his hair’s gone wavy, and all of it is so different to the sweatpants and old t shirts he usually wears when he comes to the house. Phil wants to groan out loud. 

“I’m here because—well—honestly, it’s embarrassing—“ Dan is avoiding eye contact, and stares at Phil’s legs instead. “Nice pyjamas.” 

Phil looks down, only just realizing he’s in his worn-out, lurid blue Cookie Monster pyjama pants. He huffs a bit. “Leave me alone. Tell me why you’re here.” 

“You ignored my text.” 

“What?” Dan had come all this way to confront him about a silly text? “I didn’t ignore it. I just—didn’t know what to say.” 

“So you ignored it. That’s fine. It _is_. But … I saw this ice cream truck. On the way back from class this evening. One of those really cute nostalgic ones with the lights and the music. And I thought, well, I want to send Phil a photo of this, but he might not answer, and I don’t wanna be _that guy_ that double texts, and also I know you like superheroes so—here—“ 

And then Dan is producing a wrapped up ice cream from his bag and shoving it into Phil’s hands. He’s gone a little red, and is definitely still avoiding looking at Phil. 

Phil looks at the wrapper on the ice cream and sees that it’s stamped with countless Superman logos. “Dan. You came all the way out here from city center just to give me an ice cream?” 

Dan’s biting into his lip now and clenching and unclenching his fists, and he finally looks up at Phil. “You make it sound crazier than double texting. Don’t you like it?” 

Phil feels like he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. “Yes—yes of course. This is—it’s sweet, Dan. Thank you. But also … a little crazy, yeah. You could’ve just called. Or—waited till Saturday—“ 

“It wasn’t just the ice cream, though,” says Dan, looking worried.

“What?” 

“I also wanted to say … sorry. I’m sorry. For what I said to you on Saturday. You were right—about the law thing. And I was totally out of line with my comments, I could tell that I hurt you, and I hate myself for it, to be honest. I wanted to say sorry. Is that—is it okay? Are we okay?” 

His expression is so earnest and clouded with worry. Phil wants to reach out a hand and touch him, run his fingers over his brow, smooth the creases there, tell him he’s lovely and pull him close.

“Yeah—I. I wanted to talk to you about it, eventually, I think. It wasn’t okay, what you said, but … you were right too, in a way. And wrong in others. I dunno. But thanks—for apologizing.” 

Dan just nods, and the air is thick with tension. 

Fuck it, Phil thinks. 

“Can I hug you?” he asks quietly. 

Dan nods. 

Phil pulls him forward and wraps him up in his arms, tucking his face into Dan’s shoulder. Dan is stiff for a moment, but Phil feels him relax, his shoulders falling and his face leaning against Phil’s own. Phil breathes him in, wants to take in everything that he is, as Dan reaches his arms up and hugs him back.

They stand like that for a moment, until Dan starts pulling away. Phil lets him go and smiles at him as he stands there, face tinged with pink, looking soft and beautiful. 

“You smell nice. Smell like warm,” says Phil, and knows his face is coloring too. 

Dan bites down on his smile.

“Er. Can I make you something to eat?” Phil asks. 

Dan shakes his head. “No, I should go—study.”

Phil hopes he hasn’t overstepped or made Dan uncomfortable. “Are you sure? I can give you something to take with you if you’d like. Do you need me to call a car?” 

“It’s okay, Phil. I’ll just go. I hope you like the ice cream. Don’t forget to put it in the freezer if you don’t want it now. Freezer, not fridge. Will you remember? Should I do it for you?” 

Phil’s face hurts from smiling. “I’ll remember. See you Saturday?” 

“Yeah, see you then. Don’t ignore my texts.” 

Dan playfully punches his arm, and with that, steps out into the dusk, the sky behind him shot through with red-orange-gold and dripping with the last light of the setting sun.

**

**Dan Howell** : can i come by later tmrw? i want to get in a solid four or five hours of studying in the morning so after lunch maybe? 

**Phil** : Of course. As always, offer stands to skip until you’re feeling better about work. The whole house is looking good, to be honest. 

**Dan Howell** : there are a couple bedrooms that you never go in i haven’t even touched yet lmao. and i can’t go a week without cleaning the pool. i’ll come by i’ll definitely need the break 

**Dan Howell** : Around 2:30 ok? 

**Phil** : Sure. Whatever works for u *bee emoji* 

**

**Phil** : I’ll be in the pool when you get here

** 

**Dan Howell** : been waiting to hear that. ugh now im reconsidering this work. need to see you enjoying the fruits of my labour 

**

Phil blushes as he reads Dan’s text. He’s in the pool, resting against the edge, and trying ardently not to read too deeply into Dan’s words. 

This thing he feels for Dan. Harmless flirting was only guaranteed harmless so long as it remained contained and Dan was hardly reciprocating. 

But Phil’s mind has been swimming with Dan since Monday. 

He’s wrapped up in it, all of this tangled chaos, closing his eyes and seeing Dan’s hair, his eyes, that look of naked vulnerability and sincere regret as he had apologized for his words. Waking up to thoughts of the way Dan’s body had felt pressed against his as they hugged, the way he had been lit from within when handing Phil the ice cream, hoping that he liked it. 

And that look on his face had told all. Dan feels this too. Naiveté is not something Phil possesses in any high dosage, nor indulges in just for the thrill of it, and he’d be dense not to notice the way Dan looks at him. 

But despite all of his best judgment, he enjoys this, existing in this state of potentiality—the feeling of being drawn to another person, like paramagnetism on a macro scale. They’ll exist like this for some time, Phil thinks, feeling that thrill of want, of being wanted in return. 

And then it will pass. They’ll carry on, free from each others’ orbits.

He pushes off from the edge of the pool and swims out to the center, floating on his back and looking up at the sky. 

It will pass, he thinks. It has to. 

**

“How is it?” Dan asks.

He’s got a giant canvas tote bag that appears to be full of books, and he’s sitting at the edge of the pool watching Phil float. 

“Mmm.” Phil’s eyes are closed, face upturned, drenched in the sunshine he so rarely gets. “So good. You know it’s been over a year since I’ve been in here?” 

“Did you _see_ the slime? Yeah. I can believe it’s been that long. But I’m glad you’re using it again.” 

Phil opens his eyes, brushing his wet fringe from his forehead and turning to look at Dan. “Thank you.” 

“I mean, you’re paying me. But you’re welcome. It’s good to see you happy.” 

Phil splashes water at him playfully, smiling as he squeals, and then goes back to floating. “It’s good to actually … feel happy,” and he knows it’s true. In this moment, with pool water beneath him and pale spring sunlight above, he feels content. 

Dan laughs. “This is getting too deep for me. I’ll let you, um, float in your happiness, or whatever. And I’ll be inside cleaning.” 

“Okay,” says Phil. 

**

The onions sizzle as he drops them into the hot oil to simmer. It’s nearing 8 p.m. and he’s procrastinated making dinner till now. Dan is still upstairs cleaning, and Phil’s mind lingers on him as he watches the onions start to brown. 

Turning the stove down, he wanders upstairs to the back rooms that Dan is working in. 

“Boo,” he says quietly, finding Dan with his back turned, scrubbing at the inside of a dresser. 

Dan shrieks and throws his rag in the air before turning to glare at Phil. “What the fuck is wrong with you!” 

“Sorry,” says Phil, with a little smile. “Why are you cleaning the inside of the drawer anyway? You know nobody’s ever going to use this dresser.” 

“Phil,” says Dan exasperatedly, drawing out his name. “Well, first of all, I have this _thing_ with cleaning. Once I start doing it, I literally cannot stop until I’ve scrubbed every square inch of the available space and made sure everything’s perfectly in order. But also, these drawers needed cleaning. So much dust.” 

Phil feels the familiar twinge of guilt at the neglect he’d inflicted on this house. “Hm. Okay. I’ll leave it to your judgment.” 

“So did you come up here just to harass me or what? Do you need something?” 

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.” 

“Wha—?” Dan splutters, immediately pink in the face.

“I’m making dinner, and I figured you probably didn’t bring food for yourself. So I was wondering if you wanted to stay and eat with me? I’m cooking fajitas and I think there’s probably a law against me letting you work for six hours whilst you go hungry.”

“My law degree tells me there isn’t, especially since my wages here are more than fair compensation,” says Dan, looking considerably calmer. “Um—okay, though, yeah, sure. Fajitas sound great. It’s going to be so late by the time I get back into town on the fucking bus and my stomach will have most likely started consuming itself, so why not?” 

Phil wrinkles his nose. “Gross. But good! Just come to the kitchen whenever you’re done.” 

“Okay. Thanks, Phil.” 

“That’s okay,” he says with another smile, and leaves Dan to his task. 

**

Phil feels nervous as he plates the fajitas, and pours salsa, guacamole, sour cream, and cheese into separate bowls. 

What if he has nothing to say to Dan after all of this? What if they’re only good at talking in short increments or via text? He’s never been great at conversation, feeling the words freeze up in his throat and stick there all too often, then compensating with awful nervous habits that he hates. 

What if Dan finds him difficult to be around? Difficult to talk to?

He sets out all of the ingredients and a plate of tortillas on the island and waits. 

**

Six minutes into dinner and Phil knows that being with Dan is as easy as ever. 

Dan moans indiscriminately over Phil’s cooking and Phil starts talking about how he spent his morning—watching videos of baby sloths on YouTube—which makes Dan giggle and light up.

There are far too many topics to cover, instead of not enough, and there is so, so much that Phil likes about Dan. 

“Shut up! That’s so adorable. Specifically green metallic ones? So adorable,” he says, and he’s grinning, eyes crinkled and soft, and there’s a spot of salsa at the corner of his mouth that Phil aches to brush away. 

“I swear,” he says instead. “My parents thought I was some sort of possessed demon child.” 

“God, I would too. Children are fucking terrifying. I love them though,” Dan says, and smiles. 

“Do you?” 

“Yeah, I do. I know for a fact I want two or three children. Not right now, obviously. Maybe in like ten years. But I will be the best parent that has ever existed.” He infuses the statement with his characteristic flair for drama, gazing boldly into the middle distance. 

“I can see it,” says Phil fondly, unable to look away from him as he takes in Phil’s compliment and tucks his smile away behind his food.

They’re quiet for a few minutes, enjoying their meal and the richness of the silence between them. 

“Phil, can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.” 

“I wanted to talk about … last week. That conversation?” 

That conversation. Phil had wondered if it would come up again, had tried thinking of ways to introduce the topic himself because there was still so much to be said. 

“Okay. What do you want to ask?” 

“Listen, I—I know why what I said to you was wrong. I’m sorry again for all of it, and for making assumptions about you. But what did you mean—about—you know—about what you’d been through? To get this house?” 

Phil freezes. This is not the question he had expected, and he’s not sure he wants to answer it. Not even PJ has heard all of the details of his story—his and Teddy’s story.

“Hm,” he says noncommittally, stalling for time by taking another bite of his food. 

“You don’t have to answer,” says Dan quietly, watching him eat. “I’m sorry if it’s intrusive—it’s just. There’s so much about what you said that made me wonder, and I wanted to know. But ignore me if—“ 

“It’s okay, Dan. I won’t talk about anything that makes me uncomfortable. But … I can just, sketch out the basics for you?” 

Dan nods eagerly. 

“Well, actually, it’s simple on its face. I got this house through my divorce.” 

He watches with a kind of twisted satisfaction as Dan’s jaw goes slack, his eyes blown wide. To see the rashness of Phil’s stupid, childish decision-making reflected back at him in the eyes of everyone who learns this about him … it’s a fate Phil feels he deserves, the price he pays over and over for making those choices in the first place. 

“Divorce,” Dan repeats. 

“Yep. Divorce.”    


They’re silent again, and it’s different this time. Phil can practically feel the questions radiating off of Dan and scorching through his skin. 

“What happened?” asks Dan at long last. “I mean—you don’t have to tell me—but … your ex-partner? They just … gave you a mansion?” 

“He came from an absurdly wealthy family,” Phil says, wonders if he imagines the incremental shift in Dan’s expression when he uses the male pronoun. 

Then all of a sudden Dan is biting his lip, looking like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“What?” asks Phil. 

Dan just shakes his head. 

“ _What_?” he repeats. 

“Phil. Did you have a sugar daddy?” 

And then he’s collapsing into hysterics and Phil feels the lead weight in his stomach disappear, biting back a laugh of his own.

“Oh my god, Dan. You’re the worst person in the world.” 

Dan just laughs some more, and as usual the laughter is verging on shrieking, and his whole body is shaking. “I’m so sorry,” he squeaks out, voice gone at least two octaves higher than his usual. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, oh my God, I’m being the most offensive right now.” 

But he’s still not done laughing and Phil is going to hit him. 

“I hate you so much. Here I am telling you about my biggest heartbreak and you’re just sitting there, cackling. I will actually shove your face into your fajitas unless you contain yourself.” 

That just sets Dan off again, and then they’re both laughing, and then they’re both crying, and everything in Phil aches and soars all at once. It’s never been this easy. 

It’s never, ever been this easy. 

**

“So … heartbreak, huh?” Dan asks, after he’s done mopping at his eyes and getting his breathing under control. “You—you loved him?” 

Phil just looks at Dan for a moment. “Yeah. I did.” He frowns. “And I feel obligated to disclose that he was only six years older than me, you absolute wanker.” 

Dan snorts. “Doesn’t change the fact that you decided to marry him. Why’d you do that, then? How old were you? Actually … how old are you now?” 

Phil is silent for a while. If it was anyone else being this forward with interrogating him, he’d have shut down long ago, probably would expend an inordinate amount of effort avoiding ever meeting that person again. 

But something about Dan’s forwardness is liberating. There’s not an ounce of judgment in his tone. Just curiosity. 

Phil finds he _wants_ to tell him these things, _wants_ Dan to know him, to understand his past. 

“I’m 27 now,” he says. 

Dan heaves a melodramatic sigh of relief. 

“Shit, I was really scared you’re one of those people who doesn’t age and you’re secretly 50 or something and I’ve been assuming things this whole time.”

Phil snorts. “Not 50. And to answer your other questions … I was 22 when we met, 23 when we got married. And I married him … because he asked.” 

“Were you happy?” 

“I was … and then I wasn’t. Hence, divorce.” 

“Just like that? He agreed?” 

“I mean, no. Not just like that. It was messy. Ending a relationship is always messy.” 

“But you got a house,” Dan says slowly, and he doesn’t have to ask the question for Phil to hear it. 

“Yeah, I got this house. In the end, he wanted me to be happy. He knew I wasn’t when I was with him, and he said—he said he loved me enough to give me anything I needed to find happiness again. I dropped out of my masters because I was with him. I gave up my hobbies. I stopped seeing my family and my friends. So he insisted on giving me this house and a shedload of money even though I didn’t want it. He asked me to take it, and—“ and it hurts, Phil finds, _still_ hurts, to talk about this, to recall Teddy’s words and repeat them aloud, “—and search for something that would set me on fire again.” 

Dan just looks at him, blinking slowly, taking in his words. Phil’s throat is tight and sore and he resists the urge to flee, find some excuse to get out of this room and collect himself. 

In the end, he just picks up his plate and walks over to the sink, turning his back to Dan as he goes through the motions of rinsing it off. 

Dan comes up behind him, strokes his hand gently across Phil’s back. Phil turns to look at him, standing there beside him, hip resting against the countertop. A corner of his mouth quirks up in a tiny, crooked smile. “I’m sorry for making you talk about this.” 

“It’s okay, Dan. Stop apologizing. I told you I wouldn’t talk about anything that makes me uncomfortable. It’s okay.” 

Dan keeps his hand against Phil’s back and Phil feels himself settle under the touch. 

“How long has it been?” Dan asks. 

“Since—since it ended?” 

Dan nods. 

“Over a year. And a little under a year since I saw him last.” 

“Did you—“ Dan starts, then breaks off. 

“Did I what? Ask me.” 

“Okay. You said he loved you, in the end. Did _you_ … still love him? Do you still?” 

Phil doesn’t know how to answer and turns back to his dishes. 

Dan just breathes beside him, withdraws his hand. 

Phil misses his touch immediately. 

He moves his plate and cutlery to the drying rack, wipes his hands on the dish towel, and then turns to face Dan.

“Maybe.” 

Dan’s face shifts momentarily, and then it’s back to neutral—impassive and calm. 

“But it doesn’t matter,” says Phil, slowly. “It doesn’t matter. It’s the sort of thing where—a person can mean everything to you, you know? And what you shared with that person, that enclosed sum of experiences, it’s precious.

“He was good. He changed my life. He cared for me. But we didn’t work and that’s just how it happens sometimes. It passes, but it’s still love. It still existed, it still _exists,_ because we felt it. We remember it. We were molded by it.” 

He has no idea where the words come from or how much he needed to hear himself say them. But he feels their truth immediately, and wonders at the capacity of the mind to live on autodrive for months and months, stagnant and murky and dim, only to suddenly happen upon closure and truth, seemingly summoned from nowhere. 

All of this the product of months spent in the quiet, unconsciously taking himself apart and putting himself back together, and one loud and obnoxiously curious boy with bright brown eyes, forcing him to face all that he’d found along the way. 

Dan crowds into his space, whispers, “Oh, Phil. Can I hug you?” 

Phil nods and lets himself be held. 

**

“Fuck, I can’t believe I have to go back to study after all of this,” Dan groans. 

An hour and several heated rounds of Mario Kart have passed. 

(“Let’s do something to get your mind off of all this,” Dan had suggested. 

“Mario Kart,” Phil had said. 

“I’ll kick your ass,” Dan had replied. 

And, for the first time in ages, Phil actually lost.) 

Phil makes a conciliatory noise. 

“It sucks. The libraries are full of students who are half-dead and depressing to be around. And my flat is a shitshow. I hate my flatmates.” 

“You have flatmates?”

Dan nods, his face disgruntled. “Four of them. Only way I could afford a flat in city center. Never talk about them because I hate them.” 

“Oh. Well. You could just … stay here,” Phil suggests. 

Dan just looks at him in confusion. 

“Stay and work here. We can call you a cab whenever you finish. I have editing to do anyway, I can work on that while you study.” 

“Phil, I really, really need to focus, though. I don’t know if—“ 

“I’ll work in another room if you need me to! I just mean … there’s this whole house that’s completely silent and hopefully not depressing. Why not use it when you have it at your disposal? You have that big bag of books with you right?” 

Dan looks like he’s trying to find a counterargument. Trying and failing. “I—yeah, I do. Okay. I’ll stay. But if you distract me I’m leaving right away.” 

“Deal,” says Phil. 

**

They end up staying in Phil’s bedroom.

(“Don’t be stupid,” Dan says, when Phil gallantly offers to go work downstairs.) 

Dan sits on the cushioned bench beneath the huge bay windows while Phil sprawls out on his bed, breaking out his thick over-the-ear headphones, ready to spend a few hours lost in editing. 

He waits a moment though, flipping aimlessly through his social media and listening to the scratch of Dan’s pencil, the wet slide of his highlighter across the page as he reviews his notes. He looks at Dan’s figure bent over his books, legs outstretched on the seat, earphones in and foot tapping lightly to the beat of whatever he’s listening to.

There’s a floor lamp set to dim right beside Dan, and other than that the lights are off, bathing them in semi-darkness. The windows are thrown open and a soft breeze whisks its way into the room, bringing with it the smell of night, the quiet of the world at rest. 

Phil breathes in the peace of this moment, wishes he could press it between the pages of his favorite book and keep it with him always. 

** 

About two hours later, Phil wrenches himself out of his work, feeling a headache coming on. They’re normal for him after a prolonged time spent staring at screens, slaving over milliseconds and microseconds as he trims clips frame by frame, watching them hundreds of times over. 

He looks over at Dan and finds to his surprise that his head is leaned back, his eyes closed, like he’s resting them for a moment, or maybe fallen asleep. 

As quietly as he can manage, he inches himself out of bed and approaches Dan. His breathing is steady and slow and he doesn’t look up as Phil draws near. 

Phil kneels on the ground beside Dan and gently shakes his shoulder, hating himself for breaking him out of his slumber. 

“Wha—Phil?” he croaks, jumping slightly and then turning to look at Phil. He blinks slowly, looking adorable in his sleep-ridden delirium. 

“Hey,” Phil says. “You fell asleep, love.” 

Phil cringes internally. He has no idea where the endearment came from and wishes he could scoop it out of the air between them and pull it right back. 

“Fell asleep?” Dan asks, sleep-soft and warm, still looking at Phil. 

Phil wants so badly to kiss him, suddenly, and feels rooted in place with it, the desire to cover Dan’s lips in his and take him to bed, hold him close for the night as he sleeps. 

Dan groans then, and shoves his face into his book. “Shit,” he says simply, voice muffled. “So tired.” 

“You should rest, Dan. Call it a night. You’re not going to absorb any information in this state.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right,” says Dan, lowering the book and looking visibly annoyed now, as the last dregs of sleep clear from his face. “Didn’t get nearly enough done today.” 

He heaves a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” says Phil immediately. And all of a sudden he’s hit by a wave of insecurity. “I kept you here ages. Talked forever … I can—I can pay you extra if you want? I asked you to stay after all, and that took up time you could have spent working or doing anything else.” 

Dan is frowning at him and looks something close to angry. “You don’t need to pay me extra. What the fuck? Why would you even say that? I stayed because I wanted to. Talking to you isn’t something you need to pay me to do.” 

“I—okay.” 

Dan rolls his eyes and looks out the window.

“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Phil whispers. “That was stupid of me. But I feel bad for keeping you.” 

“I’m a person with, like, autonomy, Phil. If I stay here, it’s only ever by choice …”

He trails off, then looks at Phil again, reaches out and pokes at Phil’s bottom lip, which had been jutting out without Phil even realizing. 

Phil smiles, and acts like he’s going to bite Dan’s finger. 

Dan laughs softly.“You and your stupid pout,” he says, irritation tinged with fondness now. “Don’t feel bad. But don’t ever say something like that again.” 

“Okay,” Phil says, voice still a whisper. 

Dan breaks into a huge yawn, looking remarkably like a small puppy waking up from a nap. He rubs at his eyes. “Fuck. Why is city center so far? I’m going to be drooling on the driver on the way back.” 

“Or … you could stay here?” Phil finds himself suggesting for the second time that night. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. You don’t have class. Just sleep here. There’s enough bloody rooms in this house, you know that.” 

Dan blinks. “That’s … not a bad idea actually. It won’t be too much trouble? I’ll leave super early tomorrow, you won’t even realize I’ve been here.” 

Phil snorts. “That won’t be necessary.” 

**

Phil lends Dan one of his old t shirts to sleep in, and they walk down the hall to the closest spare room.

“Honestly, I’m not a child, Phil. You don’t need to tuck me into bed,” says Dan exasperatedly as they open the room up. 

“It’s my house, I’ll do what I want,” Phil retorts. 

They finish making the bed, and Phil just looks at Dan. He hates the idea of leaving him here for some reason—this cold, sterile room that’s never once been lived in. “You sure this is okay? You can take my room, I can sleep here, if you want.” 

Dan rolls his eyes. “Your room is the only one I _haven’t_ cleaned. At least I know this one is minimally hygienic.” 

Phil shoves him. “I hate you.” 

Dan grins and strips off his jeans, then gets into the massive bed, suddenly looking tiny, engulfed as he is by the duvet and sheets. 

Phil fights the urge to brush his fringe back from his head or do something truly idiotic like lean down and kiss his forehead. 

He just smiles at Dan instead, manages out a rushed, “Sleep tight. See you in the morning.” 

“Night, Phil,” Dan says softly. 

Phil flips the light off and turns to go. 

“Shit, Phil, actually—“ 

Phil flips the light back on to see Dan looking sheepish and red in the face. 

“Um, could you leave the light on? Or turn on the light in the bathroom? I’m—“ he pauses, and sighs a bit. 

“You’re—?” Phil prompts.

Dan’s glowing scarlet now. 

“Scared of the dark.” It comes out as a mumble and then Dan pulls the sheets up so far that only his eyes and the very top of his head are exposed. 

Phil wants to die. This is too much. 

Tamping down on the urge to recite a monologue about the perks of mostly-platonic bed sharing and to ask Dan on bended knee to come stay in his room, etiquette and common social courtesy be damned, Phil just laughs. 

“Cute,” he says, crossing to the bathroom and flipping the light on. 

“Thanks, Phil. And also fuck you.” 

“Good night, Dan.” 

**

Phil wakes up to sunlight streaming through his open windows. Groaning, he rolls over to check the time. 

10:14 am. 

Shit. 

He gets up quickly, pulls on a shirt, rushes to the bathroom to wash up, and then makes his way to the spare room, wanting to see if Dan really had decided to bolt early in the morning. 

He opens the door to find an empty bed, sheets neatly made, and all signs of Dan erased. 

Sighing, he closes the door behind him and wanders back into his room to collect his phone and a book to take with him to the kitchen while he fixes breakfast. 

As he nears the kitchen, however, he hears the stove exhaust and a low sizzle. 

He rounds the corner to find Dan, wearing nothing but the t shirt Phil had lent him to sleep in and his boxers, back turned to Phil and tending to a pan on the stove. Beside him on the counter are two plates of scrambled eggs and two glasses of orange juice. 

Phil closes his eyes for a second and does a bit of meditative breathing, his mind having frozen somewhere around the point he’d registered Dan standing there in Phil’s clothes and his underwear.

“Dan,” he says, and Dan yells, nearly dropping his spatula. 

“Do you get off on sneaking up on me, dude? Jesus Christ on a bicycle.” He’s clutching at his chest. 

“Good morning to you too,” Phil laughs and then surveys the scene once more. Now that Dan’s turned around he sees that the pan he’s working on is loaded with bacon. “What’s all this?”

“Breakfast, duh,” says Dan. 

“I know that,” says Phil, rolling his eyes. “But—why—you didn’t—“

“Well, I thought I’d do something nice since you’ve kindly opened up your home to the poor and wayward uni student with absolutely no knowledge of how to take care of himself.” 

Phil rolls his eyes some more for good measure. “You didn’t need to do all this.” 

“I know,” says Dan with a cheeky smile. “But I wanted to.” 

Phil feels his heart inflating as he hears his own words from last week repeated back to him.

“Can I help with anything?” 

“No,” says Dan firmly. “You sit. You can just relax and enjoy the show.” He winks, literally winks, and turns his back to Phil to continue tending to the bacon. Phil decides that sitting is probably an advisable choice for him in this moment. 

Dan hums as he cooks, pausing every so often to turn and smile at Phil, who tries to act disinterested and buries his nose in his book. But there’s no way he can stop himself from loving this, the sun-soaked warmth of Dan in this room, taking up space, rummaging through cabinets with confidence and flitting about like he belongs here. 

The _rightness_ of it, the ease with which Dan had burrowed his way into Phil’s home and his heart—all of this has him reeling. 

There is trepidation, a deep uneasiness, when he thinks about how reckless they’ve been, how reckless they continue to be, how ill-advised it is them for to be anything but what they are right now to each other. 

But then Dan is squeaking out the high notes in his hummed rendition of “Whole New World” under his breath and Phil wonders if this is what they’ve always been moving towards. He doesn’t know. He can’t think. Not with Dan here and close, curly and soft and caring for him this way. 

Phil pushes all of it aside and grins at Dan when he announces that their meal is ready. 

He crosses the kitchen to Dan and gathers him into a hug. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

“Okay, okay. There, there. No need for the waterworks, Philly,” says Dan, patting him on the back cheerfully. “And maybe hold the gratitude until you actually taste this shit. I’m terrible at cooking. Pretty sure the bacon is burnt and the underside of the eggs are congealed into some sort of weird solid.” 

“Gross. Don’t call me Philly.” His face is still buried in Dan’s shoulder.   
  
Dan laughs loudly. “Sure. Whatever you say. Let’s eat. I’m fucking famished.”

**

It’s two weeks later and Phil is sitting in the pool again, enjoying the late May warmth. 

A frenzied scream from the vicinity of the veranda shatters his comfortable reverie. 

“Phil! Phil! Phil!” Dan screams, and he’s actually jogging past the flowerbeds towards the pool. 

Pushing through the gate, he continues screaming, despite being approximately one foot away from Phil. 

“Done with finals! Passed everything! Well actually I failed intellectual property! But who gives a shit! I’m graduating! Fuck!” 

He’d expected to hear some variation of this when Dan arrived, since he’d texted him almost the same thing verbatim that morning, but it still makes him laugh. 

“Of course you passed,” Phil says, smiling up at Dan from his position in the water. “You worked your ass off.” 

Dan is hopping in place next to the pool, unable to contain his energy. “I did. I really did.” 

“You should get in,” Phil suggests. 

“What?” 

“Get in! This pool is basically yours as much as it is mine. And you’re done with school now. Forget cleaning. Just come swim.”  


Phil wades to the edge and starts pulling at Dan’s arm, dragging him dangerously close to the water. 

“Stop!” Dan shrieks. “Stop! This is assault! You’re crazy.” And he’s giggling maniacally. 

“I am. If you don’t get in I’m going to come out and push you in.” 

Dan shrieks again and starts stripping off. “I’m about to jump into an actual fucking swimming pool! I love my life!” 

He’s down to his underwear and he backs up from the edge a bit, then runs forward, plugs his nose, and jumps in, water pluming up around him and cascading down over both of them. 

**

“Shit, man. This is everything,” says Dan. They’re floating near the edge of the pool and drinking expensive champagne that Phil had broken out of the wine cellar when he’d heard Dan’s good news. 

“Mmm,” Phil agrees, loving the web of warmth they’ve woven around themselves, the quiet of this place, the burn of the champagne down his throat.

“I wanna toast,” says Dan, raising his glass. “To you. To you and everything you’ve given me and—for taking care of me sometimes. I never thought I’d meet someone like you. Dunno if I would’ve made it to the end of the semester without you and this house. Oh and also cheers to this fucking pool because it’s everything, which means cheers to me because I made it habitable again.” 

Phil picks up on Dan’s nerves and feels his face grow hot. He clinks his glass against Dan’s. “You give me too much credit, Dan. You making it to the end of the semester was all you. I’m so proud of you.” 

** 

A couple hours of quiet drinking and contented floating later, Dan starts to shiver. The sun has begun to set and the air outside is nippy. 

“Shit,” says Phil, when he notices. “I’ll go grab you a towel, okay?” 

He gets out of the water and goes into the outhouse, grabbing three extra towels for good measure. 

Dan gets out of the water and Phil wraps him up in all three patting him down and trying to make him warm again. “What the fuck, why is it so cold out here?” Dan whines, his teeth chattering. He’s tipsy, Phil can detect it in the slight slur of his words and the way he reaches for Phil, as though he wants to be held. 

“Wait,” says Phil. “I’ve got an idea.” 

**

They’re standing in Phil’s bathroom. 

“Oh. My. God.” says Dan. “You’ve been hiding this in here the whole time? Is this why you never let me clean your room?” 

They’re facing the giant Jacuzzi that stretches the length of the wall in Phil’s bathroom, the size of a small wading pool really, made out of white marble and placed under a large round window overlooking the grounds. 

“Obviously,” says Phil, and he turns on the tap. “Hopefully this warms you up.” 

“I could’ve just taken a hot shower?” 

“But this is more fun. Pick a bubble bath. It’s more exciting that way.” 

“Um, mate. This is already more exciting than anything I’ve ever done in my entire life. But yeah, okay, sure.”

Dan walks over to the cabinet Phil points him to and rummages through his bubble baths. Phil tests the water temperature and decides it’s perfect. 

They pour in Dan’s chosen bath mix—an infusion of sweet almond, argan, and macadamia oils—and wait for the bubbles to foam up. 

Phil refills their champagne glasses and touches his glass to Dan’s before they get in. 

“Cheers,” Phil says. 

“Holy fuck,” Dan says. “This is fucking crazy.” 

His smile is the biggest Phil has ever seen it.

**

“Is this weird?” Dan asks. He is sitting beside Phil on the little outcropping of marble beneath the water that acts as a bench, a comfortable distance away from Phil, and staring intently into the bubbles, as though avoiding Phil’s eyes.

“I don’t think so,” says Phil his legs stretched out in front of him and head leaning back against the wall. “Only if you make it weird.” 

“We’re taking a bath together.” 

“We’re still in our pants. It’s like a hot tub. Relax.” 

“Okay.”

**

“I’ve got a question,” says Dan, after a while. 

They’ve been lazily sipping their drinks again, letting the quiet swathe them along with the bubbles.

“Okay. Shoot,” says Phil. 

“How do you just, like, start? Dating guys?” 

He’s staring down into the water andrunning his fingers through the bubbles again, avoiding Phil’s eyes. His voice has gone squeaky and Phil feels his heart squeeze just a little.

“I was dating this girl all through high school, right?” Dan continues. “We were definitely in love. I loved her so much. But in that way you love people in high school where it’s super fucking dramatic, and actually, when you dig a little deeper, you notice there isn’t much there. And I tried to talk to her about how—how I might—like boys? Too?” He pauses then and looks over at Phil, eyes gone wide and searching. 

Phil feels painfully fond as he takes in how scary that seems to be for Dan to say out loud, but that he chose to say it to Phil anyway. Phil smiles at Dan and nods, staying quiet, letting Dan continue. 

“I do. I like them so much, I knew I liked them years ago, but I was in this relationship and there was nothing I could do about it. It felt like … a moot point. So then when we finally broke up and I was coming here for university, I thought, you know, this is it. I’m going to be out there living my best queer life.” 

Phil sees himself in this story, but still stays silent, wants Dan to feel full ownership of his own narrative. 

“It’s not that fucking easy though is it? I thought, if there’s one place that I could find boys to kiss it would be at university—“ the emphasis drips with sarcasm, “—the fucking paragon of liberal institutions.” 

He pauses for a moment and just stares at the bubbles some more, picking up his forgotten glass and sipping on it thoughtfully.

“But … you still have to, like, go outside. Talk to people. Or else get pissed at parties full of sweaty bodies and I just—hate all of it so much.” 

He glances at Phil then as though seeking affirmation. Phil just nods at him. “Me too,” he says, quietly. 

“Right? Why would I ever do that over staying in somewhere quiet with the two to three people who don’t make me want to crawl out of my own fucking skin?” 

“You shouldn’t have to,” says Phil quietly. 

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have to. But because I don’t, I’ve only kissed one boy the whole time I’ve been here, and now my last year is over and honestly maybe I’m just destined to die alone—“ He breaks off again, runs his hands over his face, and groans. “Sorry. Every time I’ve ingested even an ounce of alcohol around you I apparently can’t stop myself from oversharing.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” says Phil, turning fully towards him, hoping Dan will follow suit. 

They’re facing each other now, and the eye contact mixed with the wine mixed with the heat of the water has Phil feeling lightheaded. 

“I know exactly how you feel. I felt the same way in uni actually. Except I didn’t really have much experience with girls either. I was just … lost. Going outside. Talking to people … all of that is genuinely hard.” 

He smiles at Dan, then, and hopes Dan feels it warm him in the way he needs. 

“I got lucky when I met Teddy. That’s my—that’s his name. Teddy.” 

He tells Dan about how they met, about the way Teddy had been patient with him as he worked through the weight of being with a man for the first time. 

“Sometimes you need that kind of person, you know? To sort of look after you and guide you and do the work to understand the things that make you feel heavy or sad or scared. But it’s so rare for those people to exist, I think.” 

Dan is watching him with wide eyes again. Everything in Phil feels aloft to be looked at this way. 

His heart jumps and races when Dan reaches for his hand and traces over his fingers with his own, rubbing his thumb gently across Phil’s knuckles. 

“I’m glad you found that,” Dan says, voice hushed. 

“Yeah. It was good. A mess, ultimately. But good.” 

Dan is sliding towards him, and he feels his thoughts splinter and stutter, his voice reflecting their turmoil. 

“I just wanted you to see that you’re not—you’re not alone in this, you know? And eventually you’ll find that person too. To guide you. Take care of you.” 

Dan’s hand leaves his, as he brushes up Phil’s arm, touch feather-light and searing, tracking water down Phil’s neck. He cups Phil’s face, letting his thumb brush over his cheekbone. Phil feels frozen. His heart is jumping out of his chest. He hadn’t prepared for this, he wasn’t inviting it, but Dan is leaning in now—

“Eventually?” Dan whispers, his lips so close that they’re brushing his own. Phil can feel their wetness, feels Dan’s breath on his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he whispers back, and Dan is kissing him. 

It’s a gentle meeting of lips at first, closed mouths softly pressing together. But as Dan kisses him again and again and tangles both of his hands into Phil’s hair, Phil’s resolve crumbles. His lips part and he gently sucks on Dan’s lower lip, holds Dan’s face in both of his hands, feels heat all over as their lips slide together and their tongues touch. 

Dan is emitting little whimpers as they kiss and Phil’s whole body feels enflamed. He lets his fingers trail from Dan’s jaw down his neck and loves the way Dan gasps into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Dan murmurs, and he’s moving, climbing into Phil’s lap, legs straddling him. Phil is painfully aware that Dan is only in his underwear. He feels every inch of Dan’s body against his, reveling in the sensation of Dan’s bare chest pressed to his own and feeling veritably suffocated with want. 

Dan kisses down his neck, and Phil presses his fingers to Dan’s hips, plays with the waistband of his boxers before slipping his hands beneath them and cupping his ass, pulling him closer, flush tight against him. He feels Dan’s tongue tracing up from his collarbone to his jaw, and then his lips are on Phil’s ear, hot and wet, and he’s whispering, “Want you. Want you. Want you so bad, please—I—“ 

Phil can’t take it. He squeezes his eyes shut, leans back, bringing his hands up to hold both of Dan’s between his. “Dan, Dan. Stop. Shit, Dan. I—“ and he’s absolutely winded. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry, this isn’t—I didn’t mean—me—when I said—“ 

Dan looks crestfallen. He is panting for breath, wet hair flopping into his eyes. He sits back on Phil’s lap for a moment, just looking at him. When Phil doesn’t move, he slowly climbs off of his lap and sits gingerly beside him. 

“I’m so sorry,” Phil says again. “Come here?” 

He pulls Dan forward so that he’s cuddled into his chest, and Dan comes willingly. Phil brings his hand up to stroke Dan’s hair back from his forehead, keeping his other hand clasped around Dan’s fingers.

“God, I fucked up, didn’t I? Didn’t even ask you—just did it—but I thought—” says Dan softly, voice muffled in Phil’s chest, and Phil thinks suddenly of Dan’s first morning at this house, all of his nervous energy, his fear of being late, of saying the wrong thing. 

He strokes through Dan’s hair for a moment, plaintive and heartsore for making Dan doubt himself.

“It’s fine, Dan. You’ve nothing at all to be sorry for. I’m sorry for kissing you back and then deciding to stop. That was a mistake, and it’s on me. I shouldn’t’ve done it. I’m sorry.”

Dan’s makes a noise of disdain. “Why? Did you decide to stop?”

Phil sighs, deep and heavy. “This is just a lot, you know? And I’m so—and you’re—“ He breaks off. He has no idea how to explain. 

“Phil, you’re not really making any sense,” says Dan, after Phil’s been silent for a beat too long. His voice is small and sad and he clings to Phil even tighter. 

Phil strokes his hand further into Dan’s hair, and uses his grip to tilt Dan’s head back so that he’s looking up at Phil. “You deserve to have all of these experiences, Dan. I’m just not—I’m 27. And I’ve got all this stuff behind me that I’m dealing with, still figuring out, and I want to care for you like you deserve. But you’re young and you’re just finishing uni. You have a degree now. You have a life ahead of you, and I’m—“ 

“I don’t care about any of that, Phil. What, this is about our age gap? Why does that matter when we … we click like this?” 

His voice is so, so soft, gutting Phil. Without thinking he leans down and presses his lips to Dan’s forehead, keeping his fingers buried in his hair.

“Please, Phil,” and Phil hates the tone he’s adopted, as though he’s pleading. “It’s not like—I’m not, like, asking you to marry me, I—“ 

He breaks off. Phil works to control his emotions, jaw stiffening into his best poker face. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—“ 

“I get it, Dan. But take it from someone who knows. Marriage or not, I don’t want you to be just another 22-year-old who ties themselves down too early, cuts themselves off from living the rest of their life the way they want for the sake of a relationship. I want you to be happy. I know there are people out there for you that will be better than I am. I’m sorry,” says Phil, impressed and a little forlorn at the firmness of his own tone. 

He strokes his thumb against Dan’s knuckles to soften the weight of his words. 

“But you wouldn’t—we wouldn’t—“ 

“Dan.” 

Dan just looks at him a moment, then sighs. He presses his face back into Phil’s chest. 

“Okay, Phil,” he says. “It’s whatever you want. And … I understand. I’m sorry. Do you still want me to work here? Is it okay if we’re still friends?” 

Phil is nodding before Dan’s even done speaking. “Yeah. Yeah, of course, Dan. I care about you. That doesn’t stop, just because of—this.“ 

He feels more than he sees Dan’s eyes flickering between his eyes and his mouth and he knows this is going to be so fucking hard.

**

They drain the Jacuzzi and dry off in silence. Phil brings Dan his clothes from the bedroom, then shuts the door to give him some privacy as he gets dressed.

Fishing around in his dresser for his own clothes, he sheds his swimming trunks, and dresses himself robotically. 

Dan bursts out of the bathroom a few minutes later. 

“Do you have a hair dryer?” he asks. His hair is drying curly, and Phil stares at it for a second. 

“Yeah. Drawer next to the sink.” 

“Thanks.” 

He shuts the door again. 

Sighing, Phil drops onto his bed and stares at the ceiling. He listens to the sound of the dryer in the bathroom and closes his eyes. 

After a few minutes Dan comes back out. “Don’t you fucking dare say a word about my hair,” he says threateningly. 

Phil feels his throat tighten like he’s about to cry. Dan is so lovely. His hair has been dried into tight curls and he looks so young, eyes a little red, fingers clenched into little fists. 

“I won’t,” says Phil, willing his voice not to quaver. 

He walks Dan towards the front door and has no idea what to say to him. Before he can decide, Dan is talking. 

“You know what, Phil? I’ve changed my mind.” 

Phil just looks at him. 

“You don’t get to fucking decide what’s best for me or my life. I know—“ and his voice grows softer, a touch more gentle,”—I know life hasn’t been very fair to you and you’ve been through … a lot. I know you’re afraid things might go the same. But it’s not for you to decide. I have autonomy, I told you before, and you can’t just take that away from me. And I know you’ll make me happy. I already know it.” 

The words sound rehearsed, like Dan had gone over them again and again, and he’s looking at Phil more intensely than he ever has. 

“Dan—that—it could change. It will change, as things get more serious, and—“ 

“You actually have no way of knowing that. Can’t you see how unreasonable this is? Forget me, I’m thinking about you! What, so you’re just never going to be with anyone ever again?” 

Phil stays quiet. Closes his eyes and feels himself shutting down. 

In this moment, with Dan so vehemently defending his right to determine his own life, a large part of his mind agrees with Dan, knows there’s nothing to be proud of in dwelling so much on hypothetical future mistakes that he stops himself from living. 

Phil opens his eyes. 

“Okay—I—I’ll think about it. I need time, though, Dan. I need to think.” 

Dan looks shocked.

Phil just smiles at him. “I’m sorry. I’m a mess. But if we … if we do this, I need to make sure we do it right, and that we’re careful.” He pauses, then murmurs, “I’m scared.” 

Dan moves forward. “Can I hug you?” he asks. 

Phil doesn’t even bother with an answer and just wraps his arms around Dan. He feels Dan tuck his face into his neck, breathing right against his pulse point. “Don’t be scared,” Dan whispers. 

He pulls back slightly and looks at Phil, lips only a few inches away from his. Phil watches Dan’s eyes linger on his mouth. 

Without any conscious thought, Phil closes the gap, lets his lips rest against Dan’s briefly. The kiss is soft and sweet. Dan brings his hand up to cup Phil’s jaw and then backs away. 

He’s smiling. 

“See you Saturday?” he asks. 

“See you then,” Phil says. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Mum?” 

He’s on the phone later that night, acting purely on impulse. 

“Phil! It’s lovely to hear from you,” his mum says. 

“You too, mum. Listen … I was wondering if—Do you think I could come visit? Tomorrow?” 

**

There’s something magic about the Isle of Man, Phil has always thought. 

He feels it in particularly high concentration sat here in his mum’s kitchen, the mechanical ticking of the wooden cuckoo clock on the wall behind him filling his ears, air suffused with the smell of cookies baking in the oven. 

“So good to see you, darling,” she’d said, greeting him on the doorstep and pulling him in for a hug that lasted close to a minute. 

“Love you, mum,” he’d said. 

“Love you too, silly boy,” she’d said, pinching his cheek. 

**

They’re sat there in the kitchen now, over tea and fresh biscuits and his mother just looks at him. 

Phil feels absolutely scrutinized under her gaze. 

“Have you been eating, Phil?” 

“Yes, mum,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. 

“You’ve lost weight. You know how I worry about you, living in that house all alone.” 

Phil just stays silent. 

“Oh, dear, there’s no need to look so sad. You’re here now. What’s the matter?” 

“Mum, I—I need some advice.” 

She looks surprised, but stays quiet, letting him continue. 

“I—You know I … I messed up badly. With Teddy. The whole thing.” 

Her brow furrows, but she says nothing. 

“And I’m sorry about that, you know? I’m sorry I never listened to you even though you knew. I’m sorry I stayed away for so long.” 

He doubts if he’ll be able to make it through this conversation without utterly breaking down. 

Somehow seeming to see through his thoughts, his mum gets up from her seat across the table, and crosses to sit right beside him, covering his hand in hers. 

“Phillip, dear,” and she tilts his face up to look at her. “We all make mistakes, you know. And love makes us do silly things. I never once took it personally and I … I understood really.” 

“I’m glad, mum. But I’m still sorry.”

She just hugs him tight. 

“But, about love making us do silly things …” he says, breaking away and looking at her, hesitant and scared of her reaction. 

Her eyes go wide. “Philip Michael Lester! Have you met someone new?” 

His face goes red in an instant and he knows she can see everything spelled out across his features. 

“Tell me about him immediately! Or her.” And she’s smiling.

It’s Phil’s turn to look shocked. “You don’t … you don’t care? You don’t think it’s a mistake?” 

“Well I know nothing about this person, so how can I determine that?” 

Phil feels shell-shocked. “But … mum. Specifics aside, isn’t it—aren’t you wary of me being in a relationship again? What if it goes badly? For me or for him.” 

“Well I don’t think that’s any way to live, my darling,” she says with conviction. “In fact, I know it isn’t.” 

She pauses and looks like she’s thinking through what to say next. 

“Every person you meet is someone new,” she says eventually. “Bit of an obvious thing really, but we all seem to forget it. Every person has their own story, their own wants and dreams. Every person will fit with you in a different way, some better than others, and maybe one—better than anyone else you’ll meet. But you’d never know that if you go along thinking everyone’s edges are the same, will run jagged against yours the same, will hurt you in just the same ways. That’s not how things work. That’s not how _people_ work, dear. ” 

Phil considers her words, biting into his biscuit. 

When he’s silent for too long, his mum says, “So, it’s a _him_. Will you tell me about him?” 

And Phil does. 

**

**Dan Howell** : graduation tonight im gonna vomit or trip on stage i know it

**Phil** : I know you won’t. Don’t be nervous. And congrats again Dan. I hope you have fun tonight. 

**Dan Howell** : wish it could be you here to hang with after instead of my family. in for three hours of awkward conversations about nothing rip me

**Dan Howell** : … phil? 

**Dan Howell** : :( 

**Phil** : Hey, I’m with my family now too actually so I won’t be very good with texting for the next few days. Do you mind if we just talk Saturday? 

**Dan Howell** : oh … okay, sure. you’re taking that time and thinking? 

**Phil** : Yes. I need to. I hope you understand 

**Dan Howell** : i do. ok … bye phil 

**Phil** : Bye <3 See you in a few

**

Phil is sitting at the island in his kitchen, coffee in hand and mind far away, when the doorbell rings. 

He knows Dan will come in anyway so he doesn’t bother moving towards the door. 

“Phil?” comes his voice from the foyer. 

“In the kitchen,” Phil shouts back. 

Dan comes in, looking surprisingly pale, dark circles under his eyes. Phil stands and crosses the room to stand in front of him. 

“Dan? You okay?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he says.

“How’s the first week of post-graduate life been?” 

“Good … missed you, though,” says Dan, quietly. 

He’s looking at Phil intently. 

“Missed you too,” Phil says, just as quiet. 

They stand there for a moment, just looking at each other. 

“Listen, Dan. I was thinking … maybe it’s not a good idea for you to clean here anymore.” 

Dan’s face looks surprised, then crumples. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” says Phil, reaching out and cupping Dan’s face, tilting it up so that their eyes meet. “Only because, well. If we’re … if we’re going to try to make this work. Well, it doesn’t really make sense for you to work for the person you’re dating … right?” 

Dan just looks at him, like he’s waiting for a punchline or the other shoe to drop. When Phil stays quiet, his eyes widen and his face breaks into a huge smile,eyes crinkled and glowing with warmth. 

“Dating? You mean it? You—you’re okay with that?” 

“I think so,” says Phil. “Still want to take it slow, still—still scared. I don’t know if I’ll ever not be. But you were right. It’s not for me to decide what’s best for you and … I want this.” 

He pulls Dan into him by his hips, holds him tight. 

“Want you,” he whispers, lips pressed to Dan’s hairline. 

Dan laughs, a bit hysterically, and then he’s drawing back, giving Phil a watery smile. “Hate you,” he says, and then he’s leaning forward, kissing Phil gently, again and again, until it’s less like kissing and more like both of them bumping their smiles together. 

Then all of a sudden, Dan pulls away again and fixes Phil with a firm gaze. 

“What?” Phil asks. 

“If you’re serious about firing me, I get to be in charge of hiring my replacement. Not trusting you to maintain this place and let all my hard work go to waste.” 

Phil laughs, feeling giddy with the relief flooding his system, and Dan smiles, watching him. 

“Dan,” he says simply, and pulls him forward again and into his arms. “Whatever you want.” 

**

Phil makes them both a thick vegetable soup for lunch, after finding out that Dan has actually been ill for the last few days. 

(“You were going to come clean the house while you were sick?” Phil had asked, absolutely appalled when Dan had coughed for a minute straight and then sheepishly admitted to being under the weather. 

“Had to see you,” Dan had said.) 

Phil feels some need to compensate for his silence this week, for making Dan wait. So he swaddles Dan in his thickest fleece blankets despite his protests (“Phil, what the fuck, it’s, like, thirty degrees right now, let me out!”) and sits him on the sofa in the sitting room while he prepares their food. 

He comes in twenty minutes later to find Dan dozing in his nest of blankets. His heart breaks a little, and he remembers the way he’d looked last week, sleeping beneath the bay windows. He acts on the impulse he’d had to repress then, and leans down, sweeping his fringe away from his brow, kissing his forehead. 

“Dan,” he whispers. “Wake up.” 

Dan blinks and looks around blearily, giving Phil a dimpled smile when he finally registers where he is. 

“Lunch is ready.” 

** 

“Got something to tell you,” says Dan, blowing over a spoon of his soup to cool it down. They’re eating on the floor of the sitting room, backs against the couch, legs tangled in front of them, and nursing their bowls in their laps. 

“Oh yeah?” asks Phil. “What’s that?” 

“I—I applied for an internship last week. It’s for a legal aid organization that works with victims of domestic violence and connects them to the resources they might need if they’ve decided to enter the criminal justice system … Not the least of which is legal representation.” 

He says this all in a rush, staring determinedly into his soup. 

Phil feels his heart swell. He sets his own bowl aside gently and puts one arm around Dan’s shoulders, using the other hand to turn Dan’s head to face him. 

“Dan, that’s so fantastic. It sounds perfect for you.” 

“It is. I mean—I haven’t gotten it yet, but … but I got invited for a first round interview,” he says, face splitting into a smile. 

Phil leans forward and kisses him softly. 

“Congrats, love,” he says quietly. “So proud of you. When would you start if you get it? When you get it?” 

He gives Dan a cheeky smile. 

“Two weeks,” says Dan, setting his bowl aside too and curling into Phil’s side. “It’s so close to where I’m living too, in city center. I hope it works out.” 

“I have a feeling it will,” says Phil, using the arm still wrapped around him to hold him close, and leaning down to press kisses into his hair.“Let’s go rest.” 

“Okay,” Dan whispers. 

**

They’re tucked into Phil’s bed and it is lovely, settled comfort, the feeling of having Dan against him in the very space in which he has been so alone for so long. 

Dan’s head rests against Phil’s shoulder, his body turned in towards Phil, their legs intertwined, knees tucked together. His arm drapes across Phil’s torso so that Phil feels surrounded by him in the best way. 

Dan keeps yawning while he talks—mumbles, really—so Phil kindly says “Shh,” presses his lips to Dan’s, and tells him to sleep. 

“It’s 3 pm though … and I’m scared,” says Dan. “Scared I’ll sleep and this will go away.” 

Phil giggles. “Cheesy.” 

Dan kicks at him a little. 

“Sleep, Dan,” Phil whispers. “I’ll be here. I’ll always be here when you wake up.” 

**

In the end, it takes Dan three days to recover, and he spends all of them at Phil’s house, lavishing in his meticulous care and attention. 

“Should we call your flatmates? Won’t they think you’ve died?” asks Phil on day two. 

“No they don’t give a fuck,” says Dan. They’re in nothing but their underwear, limbs tangled under the sheets. Wall-E is playing on the TV in the background.

“This film makes me cry if I think too hard about it,” says Phil. 

“Why do they have to gender the robots?” asks Dan. 

**

They kiss. 

They kiss and kiss and kiss. Languid and slow in the afternoons, moving together like melting honey, taking their time with it. Faster at night, lights off, nothing to separate them but the skin on their bones. 

“Phil,” Dan breathes out, pressing himself against Phil’s body.

Phil kisses along Dan’s neck, focusing attention along his jaw, and Dan keens, back arching. 

“You’re going to get sick, Phil,” Dan breathes out with a giggle. 

“I don’t fucking care.” 

Their lips meet, and Phil licks into Dan's mouth, slots their hips together. 

“Fuck,” says Dan and bites Phil’s lower lip, kissing him harder. 

“Fuck, oh—fuck—“ he says again, moaning as Phil kisses from his chest down to his stomach and down and down and down. 

**

Dan insists he can’t just exploit Phil’s generosity for three days, so for dinner on the second night, he banishes Phil away to his room while he prepares their meal. 

“I have exactly one thing I know how to make that’s damn good, and I’m making it, so go away,” he says. “Want to surprise you.” 

Phil laughs at him and does as he wishes. Ten minutes pass and then Dan’s standing in his doorway. 

“Done already?” Phil asks, surprised.

“No, I changed my mind. Don’t want to be away from you.” 

Phil rolls his eyes and laughs. “Oh my god, remember what I said about co-dependency? Tying yourself down too quickly?”

“Shut up, Phil,” Dan says exasperatedly, and comes to tug at his arm so that he’ll get off the bed. “Just stay in the kitchen with me. I won’t even talk to you.” 

Phil can’t stop giggling, and follows him, knows he always will. 

**

The third night, they crack open a bottle of wine and take it outside, wrapping themselves up in blankets and lying out on the grass, enjoying the starlight. There are no other houses in a three mile radius of Phil’s estate, and no outdoor lights—the night sky is gorgeous, scattered with hundreds of stars.

“I have something to tell you,” says Phil, once they’re both two glasses deep.

Dan has pulled him against his chest and is running his hands through Phil’s hair gently. Phil’s eyes are closed, tranquility seeping into every last inch of him. Dan just hums to show he’s listening.

“You know how I like making videos and things?”

“Yeah, of course. When are you going to show me any of those by the way?”

“Well, soon, hopefully. I’ve actually been working on something … an idea …” 

“Okay?”

“And I think … well I talked to PJ and a couple of old friends from university who were in my film degree. One of them works for the board of Manchester Film Festival. I think I’m going to submit.” 

Dan squeals. “Holy fuck, Phil! That’s awesome!” 

“Don’t be too excited,” Phil clarifies quickly. “It’s almost completely certain I won’t get chosen … there are people who submit who’ve been trying for years and making films for even longer, who’ve got a million times the connections and network that I do. But I just figure that having something concrete like that—a deadline and a goal to work to—I think it’ll be good for me.” 

“Fuck yeah, it will. Who gives a shit if it’s unrealistic? I think that’s fucking amazing, Phil,” says Dan. Phil feels him press his lips to his hair and hums under the attention.“And maybe in the meantime you could post to YouTube or something? Vimeo? I dunno, just build an audience?” 

“It’s an interesting thought,” says Phil after a moment. “I enjoyed the times I used to collaborate with PJ. But I don’t know if I could bear that level of scrutiny. Strangers online judging my work and wanting to know who I am … what I’m about … maybe even wanting to know about you. There’s a lot of baggage that comes with YouTube audiences.” 

Dan keeps stroking his hair. “That makes sense,” he says. “Just do whatever feels right. Even if the festival doesn’t come through, you’ll figure it out. You will.”

“I will,” says Phil, and feels certain of it. 

They lie there in silence for some time, taking in the staggering scale of the sky above them. 

Phil looks up at Dan and finds that he’s already watching him. He leans up to kiss him, and they get lost in it for a few minutes, no rush, no end goal in mind, just reveling in the chance to learn each other like this. 

“Things are working out scarily well,” says Dan, pulling away. His lips have gone pink around the edges, raw and bitten. Phil is breathless with how much he wants him. 

“Too well,” Phil laughs. “When’s the big reveal of your secret dark past?” 

“Happened already … or have you repressed me screaming at you about how I’m lost and useless and you’re a privileged fuck?” 

Phil is all-out giggling now. 

“It’s really down to you, you know …” says Dan thoughtfully. “All of this. You let me in. You told me to get my shit together and think of ways to do good with my degree. You decided to start filming again and make something for a blooming film festival.” 

Phil just listens and lets the words stand for a few seconds before he shakes his head. “Don’t do that,” he says firmly. 

“Do what?”

“That. Attribute everything to me. Prop me up to be something I’m not. That’s how things get … bad.” 

Dan just looks at him. 

“I mean it, Dan,” and Phil is sitting up now. 

Dan stays lying down and looks up at him, waiting for him to finish his thought. 

“Don’t erase your own personhood … your autonomy,” Phil says. “Weren’t you the one defending it to me just a week ago? Maybe I told you, in the heat of anger, to get your shit together. But you were the one who earned your degree. You studied. You worked for it. You did the legwork to find an internship you care about. You’re the one who earned all of the credentials on your resume that will land you that internship.” 

Dan nods slowly. 

“And maybe I found this film festival and started taking my filmmaking seriously again, but you—you were the one, the only one, who was honest enough with me about the way I was treating myself, pitying myself, really, to jolt me out of that place I was in.” 

They’re silent for a beat, just looking at each other. 

“It’s not all me,” says Phil, voice gone quiet now. He’s so fond of this boy, so lucky to have found him. “I don’t ever want you to think that. I don’t ever want you to forget everything that’s lovely about you … you care, and you’re brilliant, and you’re capable. And all of that is independent of me.” 

Dan sits up then, and hugs Phil to him. 

“You’re right. What you are, Phil, is honest,” he whispers. “We’re both honest. And it looks like we both needed that. Someone honest, someone who cared enough to see what we could do and be and encourage us to find it in ourselves.” 

Phil pushes his forehead against Dan’s and closes his eyes, lets his words sink in. Gently, he pushes Dan back onto the blankets and climbs on top of him, kissing him hard.

They’re wine-drunk and happy in this moment, tasting each other with nothing but the grass and trees and stars for company. 

Phil knows that right now he wants this forever. He wants it like he breathes, like the stars turn in the sky. 

But he can’t bend the future to his will, no more than he can bend Dan to fit with him just right. Maybe one day they won’t fit anymore and it will pass. 

Forever or not, this, right now, is enough, Phil thinks. 

It’s enough. 


End file.
